


Things I Yearn to Remember

by daigina



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amnesia, Anastasia AU, Gen, I'll update tags as I got there very well might be content changes, M/M, Memory Loss, POV Alternating, Prince Isak, Traveling, set in a weird psuedo-russian revolutionary Norway so I can kind of do what I want, sorry norwegian royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daigina/pseuds/daigina
Summary: In the midst of a revolution, the royal family of Norway is executed. But rumor has it the Crown Prince's body was never found.A decade later and Eskild and Even, two poor conmen, need tickets out of Norway, where the political climate grows tougher each day, and a whole lof of money. Their answer lies in a poor shop assistant with golden curls a lost look in his eyes./or, that one anastasia au





	1. Prologue

**_2\. Januar, 1915, Royal Palace  
Oslo, Norway _ **

*

Prince Isak Valtersen, a healthy little blond haired, green eyed boy of eight years old, could not sleep.

Tomorrow was the last day of the Royal Crown’s annual celebration of relations. A three day affair, the first two of which were a blur of aristocrats, dinners, sparkling gowns and bunads, house guests, performances, and music. Then, on the third day, it all culminated in a large ball held in honor of the guests and the bonds formed and strengthened between them all and the Crown that past year and in years to come. 

And Isak was _excited_. He hadn’t been allowed to the ball the previous years, being much too young. But this year not only was he grown up enough to go, even with a special bunad made just for the occasion, but his Mamma had _promised_ to save the very first dance just for him. 

So, instead of sleeping like good little princes were supposed to be doing at- whatever very late time it said on the big fancy grandfather clock that Isak could not yet read- Isak Valtersen, Crown Prince of Norway, was jumping on his bed. 

Clad in his long, white night clothes, Isak bounced and bounced on the feathery softness of his too-large mattress in the darkness of his too large chambers, thinking of the bands and the music and the food and dancing to come. 

When he heard the _click_ of his bedroom’s door being opened, he immediately dropped onto his bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and shut his eyes tight. No one would ever know he was awake, because he was very good at pretending- even his Pappa said so, on the rare occasion he had time to spend with Isak. 

With his eyes squeezed shut, Isak could only hear the faint sound of heels on carpet as someone walked closer to his bed, and the soft noise of the fabric of a dress dragging along the floor. He opened one eye very, very carefully- just a crack, so he could see who had almost caught him. 

It was his grandmother, standing over him with a knowing smirk on her face and a candle in her hand, the soft glow of the flickering light reflecting off the jewels of her earrings and the beads sewn onto her large velvet dress. 

Isak forgot all pretenses of pretending to have been asleep, and threw his blanket off with a shout of “Farmor!” As his ‘Farmor’ set the candle in her hand down on the ornate night table by his bed, he flung himself into her arms. 

She laughed and squeezed him tight. “Hello, little _engelen min._ Did I wake you?”

Isak shook his head vehemently as he clung to her. He breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of her perfume- she always wore the same perfume. A light flowery scent that she had taught Isak long ago was ‘lavender.’ Isak had grown so fond of it, when he missed his grandmother extra badly, the maids would leave bouquets of lavender flowers on his nightstand. 

She moved to sit on his bed, and gently placed the little prince next to her. 

“I’ve come to say goodbye, my dear,” she said gently, cupping Isak’s round cheeks with both of her hands. 

“What,” Isak gave a heartbreaking cry, and grasped at his grandmother’s heavy skirts with his little hands. “You can’t, though. You only just got here! And it’s been an age since you last visited, and- and the ball is tomorrow! You can’t leave before the ball!” 

“I’m sorry, little _engelen min,_ but I must go. I have to be back in Paris by the day after tomorrow, and that can’t happen unless I leave tonight.”

His grandmother lived in Paris year-round since before Isak could remember, only visiting Norway once or twice a year, at best. When she visited, she would tell him stories about her youth and his father when he was little like Isak, and read with him, and sneak him his favorite sweets- even when his nanny said he couldn’t have them. Those few weeks out of the year were always the best, and Isak was always crushed when his sweet farmor had to leave him. 

“Paris!” Isak cried out. “You said last year we would go together. Take me with you, Farmor.” He lunged forward and hugged her around her waist, burying his face in her dress. 

“And what about the ball you’re so looking forward to?” She asked in a playful tone, hugging him back just as fiercely. 

“I won’t go!” Isak said stubbornly, the pout in his voice fully evident. “We’re supposed to go together, to Paris. You said you’d show me the fountain with the statue of Pappa and- and the enchanted forest where the French faeries live! It was a promise!” 

“Now, now, sweetheart,” she gently pulled him back, her hands grasping his shoulders, as Isak looked up into her eyes with a furrowed brow and pouting lips. 

“Your Mamma and Pappa wouldn’t be very happy if I stole you away in the night, would they? And your Mamma was so looking forward to dancing with you tomorrow night, you know.”

Isak was quiet. 

“Come now, I have something for you. A little goodbye from your dearest Farmor,” she said, producing a small pouch and a slightly larger rectangular something, wrapped in creamy paper. Isak immediately perked up at the prospect of a gift- Farmor always gave the best presents. 

She gave him the wrapped gift first, and Isak tore at it, his tiny fingers ripping the paper off to reveal a book.

“It’s,“ Isak said excitedly. “It’s- uhm,” He sounded out the words on the cover. “ _Fransk Planteliv,_ ” he said triumphantly. “French Plantlife?”

“That’s right,” his grandmother nodded. “Since we finished the book on Scandinavian ocean dwellers this last week, I thought you’d like to read this one next.” 

Of all of Isak’s private lessons, science was the only one he actually enjoyed learning. He fell asleep when his tutor pulled out the math problems, stared at the wall rather than learn English or German, and drew funny faces on the different countries on his map when learning geography. 

But when it came to science, Isak absorbed the lessons like dry cloth absorbs water, and it wasn’t long before he asked for extra books to read on his own. He had trouble reading all of the more complicated words, so his Mamma or sometimes Pappa would read with him at least once a week, if they weren’t quite busy- and when his grandmother visited, he usually finished at least one book with her. They would take walks in the garden or lounge in front of the fire place and pour over the drawings and passages about the human body, plants, animals, chemicals, and elements. 

“It’s wonderful, Farmor! Thank you!” Isak hugged his grandmother tight and quickly pulled back to inspect the contents of the book for himself, flipping through the pages and scanning the different drawings and diagrams throughout the text. 

“I thought perhaps you could read this, or maybe have your Mamma read it to you, to get you ready,” there was a hint of something in her voice and Isak was suspicious. He looked up from his new book. 

“Ready? For what?”

She did not answer. Instead she handed him the tiny drawstring pouch.

Isak undid the tie and reached his tiny hand in. He felt two things, a piece of paper and something cool and heavy. 

He picked up the paper first. It was tiny, and when he unfolded it, he recognized his grandmother’s scrawling handwriting. 

_Over the winds_  
_And ‘cross the sea_  
_Keep this close and remember_  
_Soon you’ll be here with me_  
_Us two, in Paris together_

Isak gasped. His grandmother gently took the pouch as he read, emptied out the rest of the it’s contents and held it up to show him-

It was a ring. Strung on a golden chain, a large gold band much too big for his little fingers with two small emeralds on either side of a set polished amber stone. She turned the ring just so, to where Isak could see there was something written on the inside of it.

Isak set the paper aside and took the ring in both hands, inspecting the inside closely. Engraved in the same swirling cursive that his grandmother wrote in were the words “ _Together in Paris._ ”

“Together… in Paris?” Isak said aloud, testing the words. He looked up, hesitant. “Really?”

She nodded. “I come back in two months, after my business is done, to retrieve you. I’ve already spoken about it with your parents, they’ve allowed it-” Before she could finish, Isak was back in her arms, the ring clasped close to him.

“And we’ll really go this time? Together?” He said in an awed whisper, hardly believing it. 

“I promise, _engelen min_ ,” she rubbed his back gently and held him tight. She was always so warm, even now, in the dead of winter. Isak held tight to her, as though he could soak her warmth up and keep it for himself always. “The two of us, together. And until then you can read up on all of the plants we’ll see there together. And keep that ring close to you, to remind you that I’m on my way to you, no matter how far I may seem.”

He held her tighter. 

The door to his room opened again, bathing the two in light from the hall, and Isak pulled back to see his parents and a servant entering. His parents were still dressed in their finery from dinner time, his father in an ornate black bunad, embroidered with golden flowers, and his mother in a large, gem-encrusted cream ball gown, a tiara gracing her head and a veil trailing after her. 

“Mamma! Pappa!” Isak exclaimed, “Farmor's taking me to Paris!” His parents smiled indulgently and congratulated him. 

“That’s wonderful, Isak, dear. But it’s time for bed,” his mother said gently but firmly. She turned to the older woman. “Dowager, your escort and carriage have arrived.”

They all said their goodbyes, Isak holding on a bit too long and too tightly when he hugged his grandmother. He tucked his new book in the drawer of his writing desk and hung the chain and ring around his neck, tucking it close to his heart. His Farmor had said to keep it close while she was gone, and Isak planned on never taking it off. 

He tucked himself back in bed and his mother smoothed his hair down as his father and the servant escorted his grandmother to her carriage. 

There were tears in Isak’s eyes.

“Shh,” his mother soothed. “Tomorrow you will have the time of your life, and then it will be hardly any time at all before your Farmor returns. Have you said your prayers, Isak?”

Isak nodded. His Mamma always made sure he said his prayers, every night. She said angels were watching him, and they told God about when he prayed- which Isak didn’t understand, really, but it made his Mamma happy to pray, so Isak did.

He prayed for the health of his family, that all the children in Norway would be happy for all time- and of course, for his grandmother’s swift return. 

“Good,” she kissed his forehead. “May God bless your dreams, sweet one. Get plenty of rest, and tomorrow you and I will dance the night away.” With one last look, she left, a maid closing the door behind her. 

Isak clutched tight at the ring under his night clothes, and slept. 

*

His mother was right. Amidst the swirling gowns, sweet music, bright chandeliers, flickering candles, and delicious food, it was hard to feel heavy and mournful of his Farmor's absence. 

The ballroom was amazing- it was reserved for special occasions only, and the wide, open marble floors were polished and shiny. The curtains, a bright, velvet red for the Norwegian flag, were drawn to reveal the beautiful winter’s night outside and flags from all over Europe were hung along the walls. Large crystal chandeliers were hung from the ceiling, and a long buffet of different fruits, foods, and wine was set to one side. 

It was magical.

His father made a very long speech from the large thrones where he and Queen Marianne sat at the head of the room about friendships and many things Isak didn’t care to pay attention to. People applauded and raised their glasses, and his Pappa motioned for the dancing to start.

Isak opened the dance floor with his Mamma in his fancy bunad and shiny shoes- and his Farmor's ring hanging around his neck, tucked safely under his clothes. He was the perfect picture of a very adult crown prince, holding his hand out for his Mamma, who was a vision of royalty in her soft, shimmery blue gown. Isak danced all the right steps, despite being half his Mamma’s size- that is until she lifted him into the air and spun him around as everyone else joined them on the dance floor. Isak squealed with laughter. 

After the first dance he ate, and he smiled, and he laughed, and he even danced with his Mamma one more time later in the evening. His bunad started feeling uncomfortable- but he knew if he took it off, his parents would be very cross with him. So he settled for a bit of fidgeting (and some itching) here and there, when he knew neither his Mamma nor his Pappa were watching. 

There were other children, too, and Isak stuck by them when both of his parents were busy; children of aristocrats and royals from Norway and even other parts of Europe. Some, Isak had seen before or even spoken to, but most were new faces.

One boy, who was a little bit older than Isak (who’s name Isak couldn’t remember), was very chatty. It was very hard to keep up with what he was saying but, thankfully, the other boy was happy to let Isak only nod here and there while he rattled on about his home in the countryside.

The night flew by, and before Isak knew it his eyes were drooping, his favorite crackers had all been eaten, and most of the other children returned to their rooms. 

But Isak was the Prince- he was determined to be very grown up and stay the whole time. 

When the festivities came to an end, Isak was so worn down that one of his care takers, Anja, had to carry him on her hip. King Terje closed the ball with a very long speech that Isak had trouble paying attention to as he resisted the temptation to fall asleep on Anja’s shoulder. He was kept awake by the sound of everyone’s cheering as they toasted the celebration’s final moments. 

The guests filtered out into the main hall, and the King and Queen had given Anja leave to take the sleepy prince back to his quarters, despite his tired protests, with a kiss to his head. 

They were half way down the hall when loud, echoing _cracks_ startled Isak from his sleep. His head shot up and the adults around, who had been chattering nonstop, went quiet. Anja gripped him tighter to her, clutching him to her breast now as the migrating sea of party-goes stopped cold and another _crack_ rung out, from somewhere near the front gardens.

Guards appeared from nowhere, calmly speaking privately with the guests to direct them to their rooms when-

A deafening _boom_ rang out, and the palace shook all around them. The paintings shuddered on the walls and the chandeliers above them rattled. Isak’s breath was caught in his throat.

That’s when it all turned to chaos.

*

It had all changed so quickly. One moment Isak was half way asleep and the next, he was being jostled as Anja hurried to keep them both upright in the stampede of panicking aristocrats. Some were trying to make it to the carriages, out the front entrance; others were trying to rush upstairs, back to their rooms. 

They were all screaming. 

Isak didn’t know where his parents were and, try as he might, he couldn’t see them among the panicking crowd. 

A guard waded his way through the chaos towards them. He grabbed Anja’s arm and spoke something low in her ear. Then they were rushing against the tide of people, down the hall. The number of people thinned out significantly, but Isak was still scared- and just before they turned the corner, he saw someone dressed in an unfamiliar brown uniform round the opposite side of the hall, and a few more identically dressed men behind him. 

Before they were out of sight, Isak spotted the rifles in their hands. 

He squeezed Anja even tighter and buried his face in her neck. 

*

Isak’s heart was in his throat as Anja carried him, led by a castle guard, rushing down hallway after hallway. 

More loud _cracks_ rang out from somewhere in the castle. 

Or, not _cracks_. Shots, Isak thought. Like when Pappa went hunting. 

Isak always hated hunting. 

He felt sick, nauseous, like his heart was in his throat. And he didn’t understand- he had played soldier a hundred times, with little ceramic men and guns and tanks. 

But it wasn’t like this. This was terrifying and loud and all Isak wanted was for his parents to hold him and take him away. 

The guard led them to the servant’s quarters, which was usually bustling with cooks and maids and valets- but there was no one now. 

They ran into a young boy- not much older than Isak- probably a kitchen hand from the small apron tied around him. He looked frantic and disheveled, the way Isak felt. He seemed to know something, though, and took the lead from there. He showed them to what looked like plain wall- but when the boy knocked just so it opened like a small door. 

Somewhere nearby, glass shattered, and the sounds of a crowd yelling- or cheering.

“The kitchen windows,” the kitchen boy said to the guard with wide eyes. 

Isak wondered if the kitchen boy felt just as sick as he did- if his tummy was coiled tight, like Isak’s was. 

“Move, move,” the guard insisted, twice as fervent now, pushing Anja forward.

The doorway was too small to fit Anja and Isak together, so Anja put him down and held tight onto his hand, leading the way. 

Just as Isak and Anja made their way through the passage, Isak hear more shots and shouting- practically right behind them. He wrenched his hand from Anja’s and turned around to see the door shutting behind them, leaving Anja and Isak in darkness, before the guard or the boy could follow.

“Where is he?” someone on the other side screamed and Isak could hear the boy from just a moment ago shout back, but-

Anja took his hand even tighter, and went as fast as she could, tugging a shocked Isak with her.

“But,” said Isak as they moved down the tight passage, the shock still settling. “What- what about them?”

“There’s no time, Highness,” Anja snapped. “ _You’re_ what’s important.”

Isak felt his throat constrict and his eyes sting. 

It was too much. Isak was sick with fear and wanted to stop running and just sit down on the floor and cry. He wanted it all to stop. 

When they finally, finally made it to the exit, they emerged in the back garden, with a carriage not far away. They were met by another maid and a valet that Isak recognized. 

The snowfall had been heavy the day before, leaving a thick blanket on the gound, and the harsh night wind whipped at their faces. Isak’s teeth started to chatter as Anja said the quickest of greetings to the other two servants. 

“Thomas?” the other maid asked Anja quietly. She shook her head once, and picked Isak back up. 

“I’m sorry, Lise,” Anja answered as the other maid put her hand over her mouth. “We must go now.”

They quickly waded through the thick snow to where the carriage sat waiting. Anja, Isak, and the other maid crowded into the carriage while the Valet took the reins. 

There in the darkness of the carriage, Isak finally cried. He didn’t scream or wail- but tears ran down his face, his eyes stung, and he could only breathe in big breaths because his chest was so tight.

Anja and Lise did their best to comfort him, but in the end all they could do was hold him and stroke his head.

“You’ll see your parents soon, little one,” Anja said as she kissed his hair. “It’ll all turn out fine.”

She was lying. 

Isak didn’t know where they were going, couldn’t see out the window and didn’t know if he wanted to, but they were going fast, and the carriage lurched every few seconds with the force and recklessness of their speed. 

It hadn’t been very long- but Isak didn’t know how to keep track of time- when the valet knocked hard from the outside, causing Anja and Lise to look out the window. 

Whatever they saw, Isak thought, must have scared them very much.

Lise screamed “ _Martin, faster!_ ” at the Valet through the wall separating them and Anja held tight to Isak, burying her face in his hair. 

He breathed harder, more tears spilling over. He grabbed at Anja’s arms as they wrapped around him and held on to her with everything his tiny body could muster. 

“Be brave,” Anja whispered to him. Isak knew he had to be brave- he was a prince. In the back of his mind, he remembered his Pappa telling him that Prince’s must always be brave, for their country.

The carriage jostled hard, throwing Lise on her side and knocking Isak and Anja onto the other side.

He didn’t quite know how to be brave right now. 

He didn’t know how to be brave and even as the carriage threw them again, all Isak could think was that if his Pappa saw him right now, he would be so cross with Isak for crying, for not being brave like Pappa thought he was. 

Through his tears, Isak said aloud “I’m _sorry_ , Pappa. _I’m sorry_.” And he finally allowed a true sob to rip through his little chest as he wailed. “I’m _sorry_.”

The carriage was knocked over, and the last thing Isak saw was Anja and Lise, falling as gravity disappeared and they were thrown all around. He could hear the horses screams mixed with Anja and Lise’s own as his vision went black. 

_And his Royal Highness, Isak Valtersen the Crown Prince of Norway, was gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Drop a comment or hmu on tumblr @sana-halla


	2. Heart, Don't Fail Me Now

**_19\. Desember, 1927_ **

**_Oslo, Norway_ **

Even trudged through the barely cleared snow on the street of one of Oslo’s busy shopping districts, his worn boots providing little traction on the built up ice. He turned around addressing the older man following clumsily behind him, trying not to slip.

“Don’t worry, Eskild, it’s all set up,” Even reassured as he pulled his collar up higher to try and block the wind.

Eskild moved double time to catch up with Even, taking almost two steps for every one of his.

“You _say_ that, Even,” he hissed through his teeth, “but any one of these auditioners could be spying for the police.” Even held up his hand and whispered a fervent _shh_ as they passed by a couple of middle-aged men, dressed in bulky winter coats and military police hats. They continued in silence for a minute before Eskild continued.

“You know what happens if citizens are even suspected of so much as supporting the memory of the monarchy!”

That he did. They both remembered much too well what the consequences were for so much as mentioning old King Terje’s name.

Even had met Eskild five or more years ago. They were both casualties of the revolution, with no families and no opportunities for steady paying jobs- so, naturally, they turned to selling castle-pilfered goods on the black market. They were part of the large market of conmen and hockers who sold authentic and not-so-authentic Valtersen goods. From clothes to jewelry to rugs to books, anything and everything with a Valtersen royal seal- or anything that you could forge the seal on- was selling quicker than they could steal them.

And, of course, when they were low on product, a little bit of pick-pocketing and good old scamming was always a reliable back-up.

They had it good until the market was raided three years ago by the military police. They escaped, but not without witnessing more than one of their friends dragged away in handcuffs or worse, never to be seen again. While some shops or vendors still sold phony palace jewelry and furs under the table, Even and Eskild were smarter than that-

Sometimes.

The police were willing to let some things slip if they liked you or you slipped enough money their way- and most people were fool enough to pay them. But outside of that, any kind of supposed support of restoring the monarchy or opposing the new democratic socialist party was met with harsh consequences.

Now, here they were, three years later, scraping by on their talent and good looks in a country that was less than supportive of the down-trodden man. Norway had been split since the revolution between those who kept their money (and had plenty of it) - and those who had none.

And Even and Eskild had none. Along with more than four-fifths of the country, it seemed.

So Even, of course, came up with a plan one morning while reading a contraband Italian newspaper.

> _“The Dowager Queen of Norway, Margareta Valtersen, is reportedly still searching for her grandson, Crown Prince Isak Valtersen, who was believed to be killed in the attack on the Royal Palace of 1917. The Prince was 8 years of age at the time of the attack, and would now be 18. New reports were released from Norway’s military records recently which imply that the boy’s body was never found. It has been speculated that the body cremated with the deceased King Terje and Queen Marianne was, in fact, a fake. No photographic evidence of the lost prince’s death has ever been released. Her Majesty, the Dowager Queen is offering a hefty reward of 2.500 Norwegian Kroner (450.000 Italian Lira) for the safe return of her beloved grandson.”_

He had slammed the paper down in front of Eskild- who was so taken by surprise that he nearly spit out his cold coffee- and smiled conspiratorially.

“What,” Eskild asked sarcastically when he finished reading the article, “are you proposing, my friend? That we find some kid to pretend to be the mythical lost Prince of Norway, dress him up and drag him all the way to Paris, for the mere chance that this old woman will be senile enough to believe it?”

_Exactly._

So, here they were a few months later. Precautions taken, actors signed up for auditions, and location set- much to Eskild’s reluctance.

“We know what we’re doing,” Even reasoned as they slowed their pace, pretending to window shop. Officers never liked it when someone looked like they were in a hurry. “Or, at least, I do,” he smirked.

“I take offense to that,” Eskild sniffed. “I’m older than you and if it weren’t for me, you’d be alone and out on the streets.”

“Instead of the cozy carpet on the floor of an abandoned building,” Even said. “Yes, of course.”

Eskild scoffed as they moved from one shop window to the next. “You think you’re so great because the women love you and you watch those tacky moving pictures,” he muttered. “See if old Eskild ever gets the _haughty Director Bech Næsheim_ forged papers again.” Even laughed.

“I think you mean _amazing_ Director Bech Næsheim. Talented, magnificent, genius,” he continued, “take your pick.”

“ _Impossible_ ,” Eskild finished with a huff of laughter. “See if every one of those boys tonight doesn’t flee the theater, running from you. You’re terrifying, really.”

“I prefer to call myself a perfectionist, but whatever suits you, Eskild.”

Their laughter was cut off by a loud _bang_ behind them. They turned quickly to see a group of three soldiers, all in identical thick coats, hats, and with identical guns holstered around their waists, slamming open the door of a shop across the street. One stood guard outside while shouts echoed from within. It wasn’t long until the two other soldiers reappeared with a distraught linen salesmen in tow. He was crying, almost hysterically, begging with the soldiers, but they paid him no attention.

Suddenly, one soldier- the one who had stood guard- pulled his gun out of his holster.

Eskild closed his eyes. Even held his breath.

The soldier turned the gun around and struck the man over the back of the head with the butt of the gun, once, twice, knocking him out cold.

Even relaxed his shoulders and let out a long, shaky breath.

He’d seen worse. 

The other two officers dragged the shopkeeper’s unconscious body into the back of their automobile, painted with the Oslo military police’s symbol and Norway’s national motto scrawled under it- _Alt for Norge._

_All for Norway._

*

_Dearest Isaias,_

_I hope your new job at the bakery is treating you well! I can’t imagine what it’s like to be surrounded every day by fresh bread and sweet pastries. The rest of the kids here talked about it a few nights ago after curfew- we were drooling at the thought!_

_And in Oslo, no less! It’s so big! I’m terribly jealous and can’t wait until I turn eighteen and can join you._

_We all miss you here terribly. Especially Lea, who still has to sleep with Finn at night now that you’re gone, or else she keeps us all up with her sniffling. But don’t worry, the rest of us are protecting her like you asked!_

_Amalie is telling me to tell you about the snowman the little kids made yesterday during free time- it was only two feet tall, but they made arms out of sticks and a face out of rocks and Amalie put the hat you gave her on top. She says it was probably the best snowman in all of Norway._

_Eirik says to write ‘visit us and bring us lots of muffins, drittsekk’ (his words, not mine!)_

_Anders says hello!_

_Write us back as soon as you can with all the best news about your job and what Oslo is like._

_Yours,_

_Adrian_

_P.s. I’d almost forgot. To answer your last letter- we haven’t had any more letters from Magnus or Madhi since you left. Eirik suspects the Madame of stealing them like she tried to do yours, so we’ve taken to intercepting the mail before it comes- the whole things is quite clever of us. But still, nothing._

A loud rap interrupted Isaias just as he was folding the letter to put it away.

“ _Isaias_ ,” the baker’s wife called from below the attic’s floor. “Prep time, come on! Up!”

Isaias looked at the shoddy clock hanging on his wall- _05:02_. He was two minutes late.

He tucked the letter under his pillow, slipped his worn brown boots on, and scurried across the creaking wooden floor to the attic’s hatch on the ground in the corner. Lifting the hatch and letting the ladder down, he called, “here I am! I’m up!”

Jumping down from the last prong on the ladder, Isaias dusted his hands off and came face to face with the baker’s wife- Astrid Andal. Astrid and her husband had taken Isaias into their shop as an errand boy and shop cleaner just over a month ago, after he was released from the orphanage he had lived his whole life in. Well- most of his whole life. His whole life that he could remember.

When Isaias had been dropped off at the orphanage ten years prior, he’d been scared and alone, like most of the children there- but unlike most of the other children, he didn’t know anything.

He couldn’t remember anything- he would cry out for his Mamma and Pappa late at night, but he couldn’t picture their faces, remember their voices.

He didn’t even know his own name- so Madam Bjelland, the caretaker at the orphanage (using the term loosely), gave him one.

And the day Madame Bjelland decided Isaias turned eighteen (as he didn’t have a birthday either), she gave him a messenger’s bag, a loaf of bread, and five minutes to say his goodbyes.

He’d wandered around until he’d met a kind man who was transporting goods in an old horse drawn wagon- in exchange for splitting his loaf of bread, he’d offered Isaias a ride to his destination, Oslo.

And after a few hard days bumbling around the capital city, begging for work- Astrid found him.

Astrid was a large, older woman with her hair always done up in a messy bun- and _always_ had flour in her hair, despite the fact that her husband did most of the baking.

She and her husband had just lost their last shopsweep and errand boy to sickness, and were looking for someone lithe and quick to make deliveries and clean up- and Astrid said there was something about Isaias’s hair she enjoyed, so she picked him up off the streets and brought him to her husband. And he’d been with them since.

He’d been allowed to live in the attic, above the apartment above their shop- the third floor granted quite a view. Isaias was paid 20 Kroner at the end of each week and was given his pick of leftovers at the end of each day- if the Andals were in a good enough mood. If not, he was given whatever Astrid thought appropriate- still not a bad deal.

 “Come on, then,” Astrid said, moving quickly downstairs to the shop. “Bernard needs help putting the buns in the oven, you can start with that. Then sweeping the front before opening.”

*

It was a rough day- once the loaves of bread and sweet buns were all baked, the shop cleaned and ready for opening, the customers poured in. Sometimes, with the amount of foot traffic the shop saw, Isaias almost couldn’t believe Norway was going through an economic crisis _. How did they get so many customers if everyone was so damn poor?_

But, he couldn’t really complain. Deliveries weren’t extremely common, but on busy days they seemed to never stop- and deliveries got him out, around the city- and, if he was really lucky, they got him tips.

He was on his way back from his last delivery when he became distracted. This happened every other time Isaias went out on delivery- he’d get distracted by the shops he passed, selling clothes or shoes or paintings- and just stare.

What caught his eye this time was a large painting in the window of an antique and finery shop. It had a large, detailed gold frame and the paint used in it was cracked with age. The frame was draped with red velvet, and Isaias was sure this was one of those shops where only the rich sent their errand boys to pick up their purchases.

The woman in the painting was old. Grey haired and smiling, her dress was magnificent, and she was dripping with jewels. A small note card hanging from the frame read “ _Mother in Splendor_ ” along with the artist’s information.

Isaias spent a long moment looking, but knew he couldn’t linger too long- if he was too late back to the bakery, Astrid would be cross.

He started walking again, eyes still fixed to the old woman in the painting- but then he collided with someone.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Isaias cursed as he slipped on a patch of ice and fell to the ground. “God-“

“What do you think you were doing!” cried the elderly hag he’d bumped- okay maybe railroaded into. Somehow she was still on her feet, while Isaias was flat on his ass.

He met the old woman’s eyes and opened his mouth to apologize- even though he wanted to tell her to stick her head in a snowbank- but before he could say anything the old woman reared back as if she’d been slapped.

“Dear merciful God,” she gasped. And- okay, Isaias had bumped into her but wasn’t this being a bit dramatic? _She_ wasn’t the one still on the ground with a bruise forming on her ass. “You look,” she continued, her voice notably softer than when she had screeched at earlier, “you look so similar.”

“What?” Isaias asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The-” she started to say, but she stopped herself and looked around cautiously. “Him. You look like him. I’ve seen his likeness enough, all of the paintings I’ve sold, fake and authentic alike. It’s uncanny.”

What was uncanny? Isaias made to stand up and leave quickly with a nod to the crazy old bat, but before he could, the old woman pulled something from a small purse on her hip- a note of some kind.

“Take this,” she tucked it into his hand as she helped him stand. “Go where this paper directs you and ask for _Eskild_ or _Even_.” She leaned in conspiratorially as she whispered their names. Isaias was more than a little uncomfortable and it showed.

“They’re looking for someone just like you,” she continued. “But tell no one that you’re going, and tell no one that I gave this to you. Those boys will be a free ticket out of the country for you, mark my words.”

“What? What is this?” Isaias asked hurriedly- there was no way what the woman claimed was true.

“ _Shh_ ,” she said. “Just _go_.”

And she hurried off in the other direction, leaving Isaias behind- startled and confused.

He slowly looked down at the paper in his hand- it read:

_Royal Palace, His Majesty Terje II’s Theater._

_19\. Desember, 23:00_

*

_He wasn’t going._

Isaias was not going, he thought as he padded around his dark attic room. He had one candle lit on a small table next to his worn bed, the soft glow illuminating the clock opposite it that read 22:05.

_He couldn’t go._

He had no idea what it was for, who these men- Even and Eskild- were, what they wanted-

Why they would be his “ticket out of Norway.”

Sometimes, in the orphanage, surrounded by the sleeping figures of his friends and the small children who clung to him at night, he would dream of traveling. Of going anywhere else and finding- something.

A future for himself. A job that paid real money, enough for him to afford meat and clothes that kept him warm. A home in a far off country, by a lake where it was always warm, and someone to hold.

Or his past. Searching for a family, if he had one. An aunt or a cousin with green eyes and blond curls who would take one look and wrap him up in their arms and say _welcome home._

Sometimes, in a tired post work haze, as he settled into bed in the attic, he would still dream.

Was this his dream?

No- no, this was bullshit. Meeting two men he didn’t know at the Palace, of all places? It had to be some sort of trick- they would arrest him for taking the bait and going to the palace, accuse him of being a monarchy sympathizer- or they were scammers and murderers and they would rob him and kill him.

He was staying put.

*

_22:21_

Maybe he should try- if this was legitimate, whatever it was, this could be something big for him. He would leave Norway and it’s oppressive military, find out what was past the snowy mountains he both loved and felt trapped by-

*

_22:36_

No. No, absolutely not. He’d be an idiot to leave the first- and probably only- reliable job he had. He was given money, and food, and a place to live- and the Andals weren’t fond of the cane like he’d heard some employers were.

He wasn’t going. 

*

_22:42_

Isaias snuffed out his candle, laced up his boots tight, pulled his coat tight around himself, and shouldered his tattered bag.

_He was going._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI its me hello.  
> I almost was Very Late but it was only by like two days aren't we proud?  
> anyway this was a lot of set up and half information about Even's Isaias's past and friends etc but we'll learn more as they meet each other- can't give it all away in one chapter, where's the fun in that?  
> Drop a comment if you liked it!! they keep me going when the Revolutionary Norwegian Winds of the mid 1920s get me down


	3. Somewhere Down this Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaias makes it to the castle and discovers he might not be who he thinks he is
> 
> Even's desperate and a miracle falls into his lap

_**19\. Desember, 1927** _

_**24:53** _

_***** _

Isaias was late.

By the time he’d managed to tip toe out of the shop without waking the Andals and puzzled his way through the cold, intricate cobbled alleys of Oslo, avoiding late night military patrols and thieves, he could tell he’d taken too long.

When he finally came upon the royal palace, stepped from a tight alleyway and onto the wide open main street that intersected with the royal property, Isaias was frozen in awe.

The front gates were chained and rusted, and even from where he was standing he could see the windows were broken in or boarded up and the paint and swirling details that decorated the outside walls were chipping or purposefully destroyed in fits of vandalism. The statue that had once stood tall at the top of the palace steps- whatever it used to be- had been dragged down crudely, and left to rust on the ground in pieces.

But even with its felled trees and chipped paint, it was beautiful- large and ornate and intimidating like Isaias had never seen before.

He’d never taken the time to come so close to the palace, even on runs. Being caught even lingering around it during the day was dangerous and would have earned Isaias more than a reprimand for gawking at an abandoned building- so the idea had never tempted him closer than looking from afar, where he could see the rotting building from atop Oslo’s high hills.

Until now.

Isaias pulled his messenger’s bag closer to himself and squared his shoulders- time to find a way in.

Or, at least, that’s what he was going to do until he heard the tell-tale sound of hooves on icy brick from behind him.

_The military’s night patrol._

Isaias’s heart jumped into his throat as he thought of his options- but there was no time. He didn’t know the layout of this part of town and didn’t know what direction the soldier was going or how long he had until he was put in their line of sight.

He took calm and quick steps around the corner and slunk low into the shadows, keeping tight to the wall of the building behind him.

God, what was he thinking coming here? This was risking his freedom at best- and, at worst, his life- for some shot in the dark with a couple of criminals. And who in their right mind would suggest _anyone_ meet in the royal palace, of all places? What kind of idiot even showed up to-

 _Well, this kind of idiot_ , Isaias supposed.

The sound of hooves grew closer- two horses, he could tell, now- and the soldiers came into view, uncomfortably close to Isaias. But where they were riding high on tall horses, Isaias was tucked close to the ground in the darkness and they didn’t seem to notice him.

They could go left- away from Isaias, by some miracle- or go right, and discover him almost immediately.

They seemed to be talking- pausing to chat at the intersection of Isaias’s fate- and he breathed quick and quiet, waiting for them to move.

But they didn’t. They sat there talking and talking and Isaias was almost ready to spring up from his stinging calves and shout _enough about your wife and her horrible cooking, get a move on!_

But, if there was anything he learned growing up in an overcrowded orphanage full of small children, it was patience.

Finally, after one of the horses became too finicky for its rider to handle-

They turned left.

Isaias almost collapsed in relief. He moved down the street quickly and silently, disappearing off to the around the corner to find another way in to the castle. He couldn’t go back the way he came or try breaching the front side entrance, knowing those soldiers could turn around at any moment or that there might even be more.

 _No turning back now,_ he supposed.

*

It was a surprisingly quick ordeal for Isaias to find a way onto the palace grounds, and after a bit of squeezing he made it past some warped bit of steel fence and on to the other side.

Isaias thought his best bet was the back of the castle- no idiot in their right mind would go and come through the front- and found himself smirking triumphantly at his own cleverness as he found a set of purposefully loosened boards on a back window.

He heaved his bag through the entrance first and then, after a bit of struggling (Isaias had many excellent qualities- upper body strength, however, wasn’t one of them), he tumbled onto the dusty, cracked wooden floors of the royal palace.

As he stood and brushed himself off, he pulled out the slip of paper the old hag from earlier had given him and read it for what was probably the hundredth time that night.

_Royal Palace, His Majesty Terje II’s Theater_

_19\. Desember, 23:00_

Time to find His Majesty’s theater.

*

Even sighed and rolled his head to and fro as Eskild checked his dingy pocket watch next to him.

They were sitting in the very center row of the palace’s worn theater seats. This place was one of Even’s favorite haunts- something about the run-down elegance of the theater should have been a visual metaphor for dead dreams, but Even when he visited the royal theater, stood on its stage and took in the vast and empty rows of seats and the dusty gold details on the ceiling, he felt a sense of inspiration, of hope-

Well, except for tonight.

“25:34,” Eskild said, snapping his watch shut. “I don’t think we’re getting anyone else.”

“This is ridiculous,” Even groaned in frustration. “Nineteen boys- _nineteen!”_

“Don’t forget the one woman,” Eskild interrupted.

“And none of them were right!” He set the list of auditions, covered with notes and scribbled out names, to the side and ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

“You’re too demanding,” Eskild shook his head and looked at Even as though he had asked all of those boys to stand on their hands and recite Macbeth- he just wanted to find his Isak! And if the boy they chose didn’t resemble him physically or have the potential to pick up royal mannerisms, what point was there? They’d be wasting precious time and money to be laughed out of the Dowager Queen’s chambers.

“We should still choose one,” Eskild insisted, face tight with impatience. He never sympathized with Even’s sensibilities when it came to these things, his need for it to be _perfect,_ for the vision in his mind to transfer to reality exactly _._ If it wasn’t perfect, what was the point?

Eskild picked up the papers Even had discarded and shuffled through them.

Even got up with a long-suffering sigh to stretch his legs and walked down the aisle to the stage, hopping up onto it and pacing around.

Eskild followed with the list in hand and ended up standing off to the side, reading. “Number four showed promise, Daniel?”

Even shook his head and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets as he continued his frustrated pacing. “His hair was brown- Isak was blond, most of the Valtersens were.”

“They have chemicals that take the color from your hair, now- we could just _make_ him blond!”

“No,” Even shook his head vehemently. “He still- he was short and awkward. He didn’t have the potential to _act_ royal. Next.”

Eskild hummed thoughtfully and scanned the list. “Number nine- Harald.”

Even paused in his movements and furrowed his brow, trying to recall which one of the auditions that had been. “Remind me who that was,” he asked.

“The one who had bragged about his talent for balancing things on his head,” Eskild said. “Shows promise when learning how to keep royal posture, don’t you think?”

“No,” Even immediately answered, and turned back to his pacing. “He was much too old.”

“It says here he’s twenty,” Eskild read.

“Well, it says on his _face_ he’s thirty,” Even returned.

Eskild scanned the list again.

*

Isaias thought perhaps there was one small problem with secret meetings in abandoned palaces with vague instructions- in that he had _no idea_ where he was going. The palace looked simply designed from the outside- a blocky, square building with some fancy detailing- but the inside was like a maze.

He started out in a dusty hallway with wooden flooring- the servant’s quarters, maybe- and was now somehow an entire flight above that, walking down an extravagant hall lined with dark wooden doors and paintings that were ripped or pulled down. The plush yet incredibly old carpet beneath him muffled the heavy steps of his worn boots as he searched for anything that might read _theater_ to him.

Maybe he was so lost because Isaias, unsurprisingly, had never been to a theater in his life. It wasn’t like Madame Bjelland took him and the other children at the orphanage to see the ballet once a month- Isaias had never been close to any kind of real finery at all before stepping into the palace. He felt confused and frustrated and _small,_ roaming the worn halls with no idea where he was going or what to expect.  

It wasn’t long until a combination of impatience, curiosity, and frustration found Isaias simply exploring the palace half-hazzardly, opening doors when he felt compelled to and searching through the countless bedrooms, sunrooms, lounges, and dining rooms.

The first door he opened he had done because- well, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t different from the doors across from it or on either side of it, they were all the same dark brown wood with the shine worn off and cracks at the edge. But that specific door made him stop and look for a moment and before he knew it his hand was turning the tarnished gold handle and there he was.

It was a bedroom. Dark, with only the moonlight filtering in through the far windows as a guide. The curtains were torn, like someone had tried to rip them down and failed. There was a bed, but the pillows and bedding was all gone, more likely than not pilfered long ago.

There was an overturned writing desk and Isaias wandered over to it- and, even though there was probably nothing inside, he still felt like going through the drawers was something he should do.

He pulled out the first drawer and then the second, and wondered at his disappointment when they were empty. Maybe he just couldn’t stop his subconscious from hoping he would stumble upon the lost Valtersen riches, hidden away somewhere.

When took the third drawer out, he didn’t find any hidden riches or jewels- but there was a book. It was worn and yellowed as a book that old was expected to be, but other than dust and discoloration, it looked untouched.

Isaias was one of the only children in the orphanage who could read and write, when he first arrived. He had taught many of the younger ones over the years and while they learned from simple children’s books, Isaias was the only one who had use for the thicker books.

They didn’t have much, only a handful of books that had more to them than the alphabet, but he clung to those books and read and re-read them just the same for years on end. He read them to escape the shouts of young children when it was too much, or when Madame Bjelland locked him in the sleeping quarters, or when he felt lonely. Old folktales, books of histories, even a book on proper etiquette for young women (to say he was desperate for entertainment at times was more than an understatement).

His favorite had been a tattered science text, donated by a school teacher no doubt, who had no use for its outdated information. He had read it through so many times, the cover had fallen off from use. When he left, he almost took it with him, but opted to entrust it to Adrian, who had been Isaias’s most enthusiastic pupil and on more than one occasion had begged Isaias to lend the text to him.

Isaias almost laughed, considering the worn book in his hands to be almost amazing a find as any lost riches he might discover.

 _Fransk Planteliv,_ the cover read in faded, ornate lettering. He flipped through it quickly, feeling almost unreasonably excited at the prospect of reading it- what an amazing coincidence. He put his hand over his coat’s breast pocket and felt the reassuring hard lump sewn into the seams there.

_Why did it always lead back to that place?_

He tucked the book into his messenger’s bag and moved on.

*

Isaias eventually ended up exploring more of the castle with little to show for it and soon found himself outside a pair of ornate double doors, larger than any he had seen so far. This had to mean something, maybe this was the theater?

But when he pushed one of the large doors open, he didn’t find the theater. It was an enormous ballroom, with marbled floor and large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, covered in cobwebs and missing bits of crystal here and there.

Isaias looked around in wonder- he’d never seen a room so big in all his life. He walked the perimeter of the ballroom and imagined what it would be like to attend a grand party in this place.

He moved to the center of the vast marbled floor and imagined music playing in the ballroom, with a hundred people dancing to it all around him, and him eager to dance yet unsure and embarrassed in his abilities. Dressed in a fine bunad, twirling and laughing across the dance floor with-

Somebody.

The thought felt almost familiar, so detailed that he could almost put faces to the dancing figures around him, but- he couldn’t. It was clear yet blurry- confusing in a way that made his chest tighten.

_What was he doing?_

_*_

Even and Eskild had packed up for the night, Even wholly disappointed and Eskild triumphant in his success in getting Even to agree to contact one of the boys tomorrow- Alf, what kind of name was _Alf-_ and do a more in-depth audition.

They were all ready to head home when Even stopped in his tracks. It took Eskild a second, lost in his own conversation, to realize Even paused.

“What’s the matt-“

“ _Shh,”_ Even silenced him with a finger over his lips. He strained his ears and- there it was again. Movement.

“Someone’s here,” Even said in a whisper.

“No,” Eskild returned just as silently. “What if it’s the police?”

He shook his head, “The police don’t come in the castle. It’s probably one of the auditioners, lurking around trying to find something to hock.”

But he wasn’t so sure.

“Well, let them stay here and find tarnished spoons to sell,” Eskild said. “Let’s leave- it’s late enough and some of us have work in the morning- not me, but all the same- I value rest.”

There was a deep moan of wood- someone pushing open a heavy door. It echoed through the empty halls, but Even could tell it wasn’t far off. 

Even ignored Eskild and walked off in the direction of the sound, Eskild stuttering behind him.

*

Even approached the open door slowly- the ballroom, oddly enough. A grand place, but with little attraction for a looter.

He peeked around the door, careful to see but not be seen-

It was a boy. Tall, with blond hair in a tattered brown coat and his back turned to Even- definitely not one of the boys he had seen that night, Even knew without even seeing his face.

He stepped further into the room, quietly and stood a bit taller before calling out, “You there.”

The boy started as though struck by lightning, and spun around quickly. He was-

_He was beautiful._

His hair framed his face well- too well- and his features were strong yet delicate, made of sleek and sharp lines. His eyes were wide with shock and- even at this distance, he could see- light and expressive. His mouth was thin but curved like Cupid’s own bow.

_What on Earth was he doing here?_

“What are you doing-“

But Even didn’t get to finish the question.

*

Someone called out to Isaias and he whipped around and suddenly he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

It was a man, a man he’d never seen before and maybe this was who he had come to meet but that didn’t matter anymore because it was like a switch had been flipped inside him and he was _so scared_ and he had no idea why-

So he did the only thing he really knew how to do.

*

The boy ran.

He curved around Even, who hadn’t registered what was happening until the intruder was out of reach and almost to the door-

Damnit, what was he thinking, pausing like an imbecile? Him running was damning implications that meant nothing good for Even or Eskild- the boy could be a spy or a squealer, someone who reported back to the police in hopes of being rewarded- Even cursed himself and started after the boy.

“Stop,” he called as the boy pushed past Eskild who was waiting outside the doorway and made a break for it down the long hallway.

“What are you doing,” he called, passing Eskild who stood there dumb-stuck, “help!”

Eskild scrambled to catch up and they ran, break-neck, after the runaway mystery boy.

*

Isaias didn’t want to be here anymore- he wanted to go back to familiar the bakery and his attic room above the Andals’ home and forget he was ever told to meet anyone or that he ever came to this place- he was filled with more fear than was probably rational, but he realized when he was caught, the danger that being in the palace meant.

_It meant yelling and fear and blood and cold and_

He ran and he didn’t look back, down the halls, with no idea where he was going. He turned one way and then another and he was dead ended in front of a grandiose set of stairs lined with huge, dust covered paintings. He checked a couple of doors but one was jammed and the other was storage so he did the only thing he could think of in the moment and fled up the stairs-

*

Even caught up to him in the middle of the grand staircase. He was in sight and Even had the advantage with his long legs, so he took them two at a time and grabbed at the boy’s jacket.

“Stop,” the boy shouted as Even caught hold of his wrist and turned him around forcefully.

“No, _you_ stop,” Even shouted back in the boy’s face. “What are you doing here? Did you come to sell information about us to the police?”

Eskild finally caught up with them, panting and doubled over at the bottom of the steps.

“What,” the boy exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting upwards. “N-no! Lord, no! I was told to come here, some batty old lady, she told me to meet Even and Eskild and that they’d give me a ticket out of Norway!”

Even stilled. The boy had been sent here by someone he knew- he only told a few people about his plan and very vaguely, so only people he trusted with his life would give out this information.

“Even,” Eskild breathed from behind him, finally joining him on the steps. “Look at him.”

“I _am_ looking at him- or I _was_ until he decided to give us both heart attacks, running like a guilty man,” Even snapped.

“I’m not guilty of anything,” the boy insisted. “It’s like I said-“

“No, Even,” Eskild spoke over him. “I mean _look.”_

Even furrowed his brows in confusion but listened to Eskild and really looked at the boy.

Even took a long, hard look and as the anger and fear left the boy’s face- he saw it.

_Dear lord._

Even dragged the boy, who put up a halfhearted protest, down a few steps and stood him next to one of the many paintings adorning the wall.

He let go of his wrist and crossed his arms, looking from the painting to the incredulous face of-

“What’s your name?” Even asked, his eyes narrowing and his lips pursing in that way they did when he was deciding something.

“Isaias,” he answered.

The same green eyes, the same blond hair, and God, even his lips looked _so similar._

“Isaias,” Eskild repeated out loud. “Wonderful name.”

Even looked between the painting and Isaias one more time before he decided.

This was it.

“Uh, thank you?” Isaias answered hesitantly.

“Isaias,” Even asked, “You come here, alone, in the middle of the night- to ask us for tickets out of Norway. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Isaias answered defensively, puffing up a bit. He was snappy. Interesting. “I was just- I want to leave but I have no money, and-“

“You don’t have any family? No one to keep you here?”

He seemed to deflate at the question and gave a clipped “no.”

“Are they dead?” asked Eskild.

“I _don’t. Know,”_ Isaias said, back on the defensive.

“What does that mean, you don’t know? You lost your entire family somewhere?” Even continued the interrogation.

“It _means_ I don’t remember,” the boy snapped. “I come from an orphanage and I’ve lived there since I was eight and I don’t remember anything before that so I don’t _know.”_

“He doesn’t remember anything from his childhood,” Eskild remarked to Even.

“No family. Wants to leave the country,” Even finished. He took a long, hard look into Isaias’s eyes, a tactic he learned on the black market- if you want to convince people to do what works in your favor, sometimes you have to play games. He counted to five in his head and then asked in a calm but professional tone, “Isaias, do you know why you were sent here? What my partner and I are doing?”

“No,” he answered.

This could work out in their favor.

The wheels started turning in Even’s head. The boy was a perfect fit, but he was frightened- a flight risk. He had to get the boy to really want this for himself-

He had no family, he was scared and young and what was the one thing anyone with no family wanted? To believe they had one. With the boy’s unclear past and the physical resemblance, it would be too easy-

He turned to Eskild and gave a sharp nod while licking his lips- their sign for _follow my lead-_

Even just had to play his cards correctly

_*_

Isaias was tense.

“My friend, Eskild, and I,” Even told him, “are leaving the country to visit the Dowager Queen of Norway. I’m sure you’ve heard of the revolution and what happened here.”

“I- I heard about it, yes,” Isaias answered. “The royal family was killed. And so were a lot of other people.”

“All but one,” Even answered, something swirling in his eyes- what, Isaias didn’t know. “The crown prince, Isak Valtersen, was rumored to have escaped.”

“Those are just rumors,” he shrugged.

“ _Rumors_ that have the military police doubling down on anyone who so much as mentions the boy’s name. They don’t want anyone to know, but they never found the boy and he’s still out there somewhere. He could be anywhere,” Even paused. “He could even be- right here.”

“What,” he scoffed. What was Even getting at- was he crazy?

Was he insinuating that _Isaias_ was…

“Look at that portrait behind you,” Even instructed and Isaias turned around slowly, not really wanting to follow the orders of the man who had chased him and manhandled him so clearly, but curiosity always got the best of his pride.

It was a large portrait, one of the largest on the walls. It had a thick, ornate frame with chipped gold paint. There were three people in the painting, two adults and a child, dressed in ridiculous finery- large furs and ball gowns and jewelry and medals. They were all blond, and the man seemed to give off an air of authority with his square shoulders and low set brow, while the woman seemed almost timid- but graceful, gentle.

The little boy in the painting was young. Not so old as ten, with blond curls and green eyes, that seemed to stare sweetly at only Isaias, like they shared a secret.

“That’s the royal family. King Terje, his wife, Queen Marianne- and their son, Isak. Now, Eskild and I are going to Paris, where the Dowager Queen lives-“

Isaias almost started at the mention of _Paris,_ but he kept his wits about him and forced himself not to react. He still didn’t know these men, and he wasn’t so naïve that he would trust them just yet.

But they weren’t just leaving Norway.

_They were going to Paris._

“-and we sent out everyone we’ve ever trusted, telling them that if they find a young man who would be about eighteen this year, who looks like that, to send him to us. We’re looking for the crown prince and we want to reunite him with his family.”

Isaias kept eye contact with the child as he spoke. “And you think- you think that’s me?” he nodded at the painting. He couldn’t believe it.

Even walked up next to him, his friend not far behind, and Isaias met his gaze.

Even shrugged.

“Do you believe in fate, Isaias?” he asked.

Isaias mimicked Even’s shrug petulantly.

“Well, I don’t,” Even said with some finality. “I think we make our own way with what we do. But I’ll tell you- I think there was a reason you chose to come here tonight. I’ve seen almost a hundred boys tonight before I saw you, and not one of them- not a _single one_ looked as much like Isak as you do. I was going to throw in the towel- but looking at you, all I can think of is standing in front of the Dowager Queen and telling her that her wait is finally, finally over. That she can have her family back.”

Isaias had to remind himself to breathe.

“What,” he said, looking between the two men. “What makes either of you think that _I’m_ her family, though? There are plenty of people who look like me.”

Eskild stepped forward and flung an arm around him, making Isaias shrink away. “You must see, dear boy, the physical resemblance is more than uncanny. But it’s more than your hair and your eyes- you have Isak’s mouth, his mother’s nose- his father’s _ears,_ even. And you have no family-“

“And the Dowager Queen is searching for hers,” Even finished Eskild’s thought.

“Yes,” Eskild insisted, his arm tightening around Isaias. “It’s too strange to be true- so it must be.”

“And if we’re wrong,” Even said, “what are our losses? Disappointed hopes, yes, but if it’s all a misunderstanding, you’ll still be out of the country like you wanted and free to do whatever you please.”

Isaias thought. What _were_ the chances? He didn’t know what he thought of himself as a _prince_ but- the thought that he could really have someone out there, waiting for him?

Could he say no to that possibility?

 “And you’ll take me to Paris?” Isaias asked after a beat.

“We will,” Eskild said, smiling widely.

“I…” Isaias hesitated. “I really don’t remember. Before I was eight. How would I prove I’m him?”

Even gave an easy smile. “We’ll teach you- we’ll tell you all about your family and the Crown Prince Isak and that may help you remember. You never know.”

Isaias _didn’t_ know. Who his family was, who he was, where he really belonged.

But, looking at the painting of the prince- of _himself_ , maybe… he wanted to. So, so badly.

And he had come here, after all, hadn’t he? He had wanted to see if he had a chance, a chance at a family or a real life somewhere-

Here it was.

He squared his shoulders and put out his hand, which Eskild shook enthusiastically.

“When do we leave?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo buddy this was a PAIN to write and I'm late because I couldn't be satisfied for the longest time. I switched POV's more than originally planned to make things work- let me know if its unclear who's POV each time? Anyway this is probably the most switching for a long time, because it was kind of a tension moment. 
> 
> Again thanks so everyone for the great feedback!! I love you all so so much <3


	4. Have You Heard?

**26\. Desember, 1927**

**09:34**

**Oslo, Norway**

Jonas walked through the streets of Oslo sometimes, his long, plain coat buttoned high, affording him a kind of anonymity he reveled in. He could watch the people on the streets, making their own way in their lives- selling, buying, meeting new people, making families right before his eyes, everyone knowing they were the same as one another, every one of them of equal value.

He loved his country with everything in him.

It was a cold day, but the snow on the ground had melted away and the dry wind whipped through his curls, stinging his face. Jonas was in the heart of the shopping district, passing by shop after shop, taking in the full windows and the sight of all different kinds of wares.

He wandered almost aimlessly until he saw from across the way a young boy- well, maybe as young as Jonas, but Jonas sometimes forgot how young he really was. The boy was tall and blond, bundled in a large brown coat as he swept the pavement outside a bakeshop, fully concentrated on his task. Jonas supposed a sixth sense must have drawn his attention to the boy because it no sooner did he lay eyes on him that a loud _bang_ rang through air, like gunfire. But it was only a nearby truck backfiring as it drove down the street.

The sound made Jonas flinch in surprise but the boy- the boy screamed. He dropped the broom in his hand flung himself against the storefront, as though he were trying to take cover.

Jonas ran across the street, “Are you alright?” he called. He took the discarded broom in his hand and inched towards the blond shop sweep, who was all but on the ground in fear. “Don’t be scared.”

The boy backed away from him but Jonas only held his hands up. Something in the boy’s face made him want to help. “Don’t worry, my friend- it was only a truck down the way that backfired.”

He seemed to hear Jonas and came to his senses. He stood at full height, as tall as Jonas or taller still, his blond curls falling into his eyes. He nodded, looking ashamed at his outburst. “I’m- I’m sorry,” he said. “I just- I’ve gotten little sleep this week and I’m tired, so...”

“It’s alright,” Jonas gently pressed the broom into his hands, patting them assuredly. “You have nothing to fear here.”

The frightened boy’s eyebrows knitted together. Jonas wasn’t usually one to spend much time really talking to civilians outside of simple shopping chatter, but the boy’s horrified outburst pulled at him somehow- this was why Jonas did what he did in the first place. For scared people like him. And something in the boy’s face was familiar, like he knew him already- or could know him quickly, if he tried.

“Listen,” Jonas started. “I have a few cigarettes on my person. Shall we take a quick break and smoke in the alley? It’ll help with stress-“

“No,” he was cut off. “I’m sorry, I have to go back inside- my job, you see-“

“You can’t take a ten minute break?” Jonas asked with a skeptical smile.

He was met with a vehement shake of the head. “No, no- I’m sorry. I, uh… the bread will be done baking by now and I’ll be needed to assist, so.”

The boy bowed his head and bid Jonas thanks again as he retreated into the shop.

*

“Captain!” a lower ranking officer called from across room. The main floor of the Military Police headquarters was abuzz with activity, as usual- people being taken in for question, sent off to holding camps, papers being filled and filed a mile high for each one and the secretaries always asking for this or that to be reviewed.

“Captain,” the young, nameless officer said again when he was closer. He seemed short of breath and excited- or anxious. “Urgent news from just off the streets, Captain.”

Captain Jonas Noah Vasquez handed off the file he had been reviewing to the secretary sitting next to him and led the man into his office with a jerk of his head, his polished boots loud and commanding even in the noisy main floor.

Closing the heavy wooden door behind him he gave a curt nod and asked, “Well, what is it?” as he headed towards desk.

The officer came to a halt in the middle of the room. He gave a salute and removed his hat in a crisp, practiced manner. “Petty Officer Johansen reporting. This morning at precisely-“

“Just,” Jonas rolled his eyes, “Say what you need to say, Johansen.” He sat down in the large red leather chair behind his desk- a mess as always, covered in different papers, files and photographs- and motioned with his hand for the lower ranking officer to get on with it. A testament to Jonas’s title as youngest appointed captain in Norway, he both appreciated and hated the pretense of rank. 

“Yes, sir,” Johansen stood at ease and continued. “My commanding officer and I were doing routine inspections of some shops and sellers under investigation for black market activities. Upon the discovery of some contraband items, one of the men running the shop offered information to us in exchange for a light treatment.”

Jonas rolled his eyes. Every criminal on the street offered something in exchange for their crimes being over looked. Jonas himself had heard it all- hogwash stories about crooked officers, other petty criminals, even spotted royal family members back from the dead. No one crime expunged another, in Jonas’s opinion. The law was the law- and most of the time the information offered wasn’t even truth. But he allowed Johansen to continue.

“They gave good word that two known criminals on our watch list, Even Bech Næsheim and Eskild Tryggvason, have taken in a young man they claim to be Isak Valtersen.”

Jonas’s ears perked up at the mention of the two criminals. They had been watching those two for going on four years at this point, since the collapse of the black market, when Jonas had been nothing but a petty officer. They had slipped through Jonas’s fingers more than one time, but even now the police had no real evidence to convict either criminal of anything. Sometimes Jonas thought they were made of mist, they’d been so easily able to avoid his officers.  

And this was just up their alley.

Jonas wasn’t concerned with the boy Even and Eskild had decided to parade around as Isak really being Isak- Jonas had only been a boy when the royals fell, not yet thirteen, but he remembered the Valtersens. He’d even met the King Terje and his son, Isak, at some point- and true to how his father had raised him, he looked right into the evergreen eyes of the King and his son, who lived in the lap of luxury while his family and friends struggled in squalor- and spit at their feet.

Jonas furrowed his brows and sat back in his chair. “Bring me the boy they’re passing off as a Valtersen- don’t go for either Tryggvason or Næsheim, they’re too smart, and they’ll just drop everything and slip out from under us again. Don’t make a fuss about it and if he fights, knock him out and keep it quiet, but I want him brought in alive, understood?”

The soldier nodded with an obnoxiously loud “yes, Captain!” and turned on his heal, closing the door behind him. 

Jonas exhaled and began organizing the files and papers on his desk- with this Faux Prince, he’d need the space.

*

Isaias groaned and threw his head down on the table in front of him.

“I don’t know,” he said in a clipped voice. He was almost at his wits end.

“Yes, you do,” Even insisted from across the table. “Eskild said it fifteen minutes ago.”

They were in Even and Eskild’s home- well, if one could call it that. To Isaias’s surprise, they didn’t just live in the abandoned castle- rather, they lived in an abandoned building in another part of the town. It was nice, if one ignored the smell of rot.

It had been more than a week since Isaias agreed to work with Eskild and Even, to see if he really was Isak Valtersen. He spent his days in the bakery still, cleaning and doing errands- he still needed to make money. His nights, like tonight, were spent with Even and Eskild, going through the Valtersen family line, Isak’s- his?- past, and royal etiquette.

The first few days had been amazing- Isaias felt like he was on an adventure each time he headed out in the night to meet with Eskild and Even. He felt like he was _doing_ something, like he was on his way to finding where he belonged.

He’d never felt more alive.

By the fourth day, the exhaustion of working all day and being with Even and Eskild all night had caught up with him. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, and even on nights when he returned to the bakery at some kind of reasonable hour, he felt himself tossing and turning in his bed, unable to sleep.

He was falling asleep at work during the day, and making mind numbingly slow progress with learning about his supposed past at night. He couldn’t remember the name of his second uncle on his father’s side or his great grandparents on his mother _or_ father’s side- and the location of the Valtersen summer home escaped him every time.

He’d never felt more hopeless.

And while Eskild was patient most times- Even wasn’t helping.

“You know this,” Even insisted, clearly annoyed with Isaias’s inability to retain- or remember- anything. Frankly, Isaias was annoyed, too- but mostly with Even.

Even seemed to take it personally whenever Isaias did something wrong- he’d said after the first few days of little success that it was like learning lines for a play, advice that was probably the most patient Even had ever been-

Well, apparently Isaias wasn’t cut out to be an actor.

Even jabbed his finger at the notebook in front of him- one where he and Eskild had compiled all the information Isaias was studying- for the hundredth time.

“Queen Marianne had one brother, his name was…”

Isaias pulled his head off the table and searched his memory for the answer.

Nothing.

Even heaved a sigh. “Christian. His name was Christian. He died before you were born, at 27.”

“Then why should I know that?” Isaias threw his hands up in frustration. “I’d never _met_ the man!”

Even was about to open his mouth to argue-he _always_ argued- when Eskild cut in, clapping his hand on Even’s shoulder.

“We’re only giving you all the tools we possibly can for a real shot at recovering your memories, Isak,” Eskild said gently.

 _Ugh._ There it was again. Eskild insisted on calling him Isak, now. He was sure it would help ease Isaias into a breakthrough- and while he couldn’t disagree, the name made a strange feeling settle in Isaias’s chest whenever Eskild said it. Isaias felt like a stranger to himself- all of the information he couldn’t grasp, the sneaking around, the long nights and hard work days- and that name only brought a heaviness to it, magnifying all of that. _Who was he? Isak, or Isaias? Could he be both?_

He didn’t really feel like anything.

They continued, an awkwardness hanging in the air that only Eskild seemed willing to break- with no luck. As much as that made Isaias feel badly, his stubbornness won out in the end and he didn’t stop heaving sighs and shooting angry looks across the table. 

He slunk home in the dark that night, his shoulders tense.

*

_Dearest Isaias,_

_Everything here is as about as you’d expect, so there’s not much to report on. Still no news from Madhi or Magnus, and no new comers. Amalie threw a fit the day before last when one of the older kids pushed Lea down and Madame took away her supper and sent her to bed early- but Eirik and I did just like you used to and snuck her some left overs- it was quite the feat. Eirik distracted Madame and pretended like he was going to yak up his supper while I snuck two whole dinner rolls into my pockets- AND a bit of butter in a cloth. Amalie almost cried she was so happy._

_Where are you going that we won’t be able to write for a while? Have you been sacked already? Please write back as soon as you are able, as Eirik, Tom, and I have made bets on how long you’ll last until you’re kicked out and why- Tom swears it’ll be for roughing up a customer, but I think it’ll be for nicking sweet rolls. Don’t spare any details! I have one whole krone riding on this._

_Yours,_

_Adrian_

*

The next day found Isaias sweeping the shop as the Andals finished with the baking in the back. It was a quiet morning, the sun had just rose, and Isaias’s eyes were still heavy with sleep loss.

When he finished sweeping and moved to the storeroom to clean and organize, he heard loud thumping knocks from the storefront. While they had early customers once in a while, they’d never had anyone so early- or so loud. He moved to the front of the shop, only to find two men, clean cut and dressed in military police uniforms shoving Mrs. Andal aside and storming into the shop, the sound of their heavy polished boots somehow deafening.

Isaias froze. He thought this must be a mistake- there was no reason for them to be here, terrorizing the Andals and their shop like this.

Unless-

Isaias’s eyes grew wide with terror as the men made a beeline for him. The men didn’t say a word as they took him by the arms and nearly dragged him from the shop.

Growing up in an overcrowded orphanage with a dictator running the place, Isaias was no stranger to getting out of sticky situations. When he couldn’t outsmart Madame Bjelland, he outran her. He’d twisted out of her talon-like grip, maneuvered around furniture, and slide through gaps more times in his life than he could count.

But the police were not Madame Bjelland and Isaias had seen more than one person dragged screaming from their home, or worse, since he arrived in Oslo. And they were rarely seen again.

His mouth went dry.

He tried to push away the panicking thoughts in his brain, telling him that he, like all those people, would never see the light of day again.

Would never see anything again.

And for the most terrifying moment of his life- it happened much too quickly.

Isaias didn’t scream and he didn’t protest. His breathing came out fast and shaky as he twisted around to see Mrs. Andal with her hand over her mouth, her wide eyes mimicking his own.

 As the two men roughly pushed him into the back of their automobile, Isaias thanked any God listening that nothing else happened in that shop- to him or the Andals- and prayed that nothing else would, where ever he was getting taken.

*

Jonas put down the pen in his hand as a knock echoed through his office. He didn’t need to ask who it was- he knew. They were right on schedule.

He called for them to enter.

Two low ranking officers brought the boy in and Jonas gave them leave, excusing them with only a curt nod. As the door closed behind them, he brought his attention to the boy standing in front of him.

And he was almost shocked to see the shop sweep from the other day standing in front of him. Looking at him closer now, he was thin, his too large clothes hanging off his slight frame, tattered and worn. His blond hair was curly and unruly- in desperate need of a haircut- almost falling into his eyes, which were locked to the ground, as though he had been brought in to see the carpet instead of Jonas.

He admired for a moment how the boy squeezed his hands into fists to try keep Jonas from noticing the shaking.

The faux Isak being the scared shop sweep changed almost everything- Jonas could see now, this was no threat. This was a scared boy, a kind boy, being taken advantage of because of his hair and a slight resemblance to a dead monarch. Jonas could almost laugh.

He stood, and more than took his time making his way past his desk, his slow steps coming to a stop in front of ‘Isak.’

The boy’s eyes didn’t leave the floor, even when Jonas was less than a meter in front of him.

“We finally meet again,” Jonas said with a smile on his face. The boy’s eyes snapped up at his voice and Jonas smiled wider at the recognition.

“What a coincidence. Captain Jonas Vasquez, at your service. May I ask your name?” he said. “My men have told me much about you- except your name.”

“Isaias,” he answered curtly after a beat, looking unsure. “What are my charges? Why was I brought here?”

“Charges,” Jonas repeated with a good natured laugh. “None. Why should there be?” When he was met with silence he pressed on. “You have a job, a place to live- you’re happy here, in our new Oslo, aren’t you, Isaias?”

“I am- I’ve always been thankful for my place with the Andals.”

 “Isaias,” Jonas said. “Tell me, what do you know about our government?”

That made the boy seem unsure- like he thought Jonas was setting him up. But Jonas only wanted to show him, to teach him.

“You can speak freely.”

He knew there was skepticism amongst the general population about how things were ran- there were times even Jonas was critical of his men, of his government. But he also knew that Isaias didn’t understand. He hadn’t been through any of it like Jonas had, probably didn’t even know how things were before the revolution. So few seemed to remember what life was like then.

“I know that I _can’t_ do that,” Isaias started, slowly but gaining momentum as he went on. “I know that even mention of the Royal Family is taken very seriously-“

“ _Your_ family?” Jonas asked, cutting him off.

Isaias froze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jonas ran a hand through his dark hair. “Isaias, I don’t want to threaten you. That’s not why you’re here. But you must understand, the integrity of this government cannot be challenged- even by a shop boy, who’s playing at being a dead prince. If you were who you say you are- you must understand, they would kill you without a second hesitation. There would be nothing anyone, not even I, could do.”

Jonas didn’t want things to be heavy- this boy only needed a friend. He was alone and innocent and in need of guidance, and Jonas saw no merit in threatening a lost boy.

“But,” he laughed with humor that wasn’t quite there, “It’s clear that you’re not, luckily enough.”

Isaias gave a hesitant smile.

“Really,” Jonas continued, returning to behind his desk. He motioned for the blond boy to come closer. “There’s no reason for us not to be friends, Isaias. I may be the captain here, but I’m just a man, same as you. Some say I’m intimidating but I just think that’s the uniform- or the eyebrows, who knows.” Jonas wiggled his thick eyebrows exaggeratedly. “I say that under this government we are all equal. And I meant that.”

“Except for the part where you could throw me in jail,” Isaias deadpanned. He bit his lip back, like a child about to be scolded- but Jonas only laughed.

“I suppose you could look at it like that,” Jonas chuckled. “But the military police is necessary- it’s a bit shit, but then, sometimes a bit of shit is needed. Ask a gardener if they could do their job without it!”

Isaias huffed out a laugh, with what Jonas thought to be a genuine smile on his face.

They were getting somewhere.

“You understand what I mean, though?” Jonas asked in earnest. “This game of pretend will stop and we can all move on.”

“I just- I want to know who I am. It’s nothing so harmful as-“

“No, Isaias. It is, though,” Jonas said quickly, almost pleadingly. “It is as harmful as one might think- more so, even.”

Jonas leaned on the desk with both hands and tried to keep calm. He had to make him understand.

“Listen to me. Do you remember what it was like, before?”

He shook his head.

“Of course not,” Jonas answered. “It was- it was so, so much worse. The monarchy paraded itself around as though it was supporting and giving life to a capitalist wonderland of opportunity for the people. But that wasn’t what it was. It was a world full of corruption, where the rich only became richer and the poor were exploited for all that they were worth and treated like dirt.”

Jonas remembered too much, he sometimes thought. Too much for any child of the revolution.

“My father was one of those exploited- we were poorer than anyone I’ve ever met. And my father was punished for trying to make a better life for his family. _That_ is what the royalty stood for. Now, we are still not perfect- no government is. What you must understand is, we cannot return to that. Be grateful for what you have now, who you are _now,_ Isaias. Because I see someone who is good. A boy who is part of the future of Norway. A boy who is being taken advantage of. I think what you need, Isaias, is a friend. Someone to turn to when you’re in need or questioning what to do- and I could be that friend.”

Isaias’s eyes wouldn’t meet his own.

“Would you,” Jonas said, “like to finally share that cigarette?” He laughed conspiratorially. “We’re not supposed to smoke indoors, but if you don’t tell- then I won’t.”

“I’m sorry- but no,” Isaias answered. “I have work and- and I really must get back.”

“That’s quite alright.” Jonas moved to stand in front of him again and offered his hand. To his delight, Isaias took it immediately. Jonas’s words were not in vain. “Listen, friend. Feel free to call on me anytime. I mean that.”

Isaias looked into Jonas’s eyes, for maybe the first time, and Jonas felt a kind of pride swell within him.

“And mind yourself. You’re good, Isaias. You can see it in your-“

Eyes.

_His eyes._

Now, with the light shining in them, with Jonas looking, really looking for the first time, into his familiar deep green eyes, he saw something there.

And suddenly his mind flashed back to a small boy of his age with blond curls and green eyes filled with tears.

But that wasn’t possible. There was no way-

“Jonas?” Isaias asked, his brows furrowed. “I must go. Am I free to leave?”

“Yes,” Jonas said softly. As Isaias finally turned to leave, he snapped out of it and called after him “Be careful.”

He watched as the door closed behind Isaias- or, someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late, this chapter gave me hell among other things. I don't personally believe it's up to par with what I wanted, so if you were disappointed, don't worry you're not the only one- and I'm working on doing better.  
> Anyway. When I watched the musical through, Anastasia and Gleb's first and last meeting made me want it to be Jonas so bad- if you don't understand now, you might as the story progresses. I think it's a hard but interesting fit, Jonas as the scarred child turned almost blindly patriotic officer who thinks he's doing what's best and sees Isak as something he's not really. And let's be honest, Jonas in s1 did a similar kind of coddling- when in reality Isak was a snake lmao.  
> Anyway drop a comment and tell me what you think.


	5. Stay, I Pray You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak tackles some Robert Frost and things finally get moving- kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM.  
> SO SORRY.  
> It has been four MONTHS since I updated but I moved countries, started a new job, and then just needed to find time lmao. this is hopefully the start of constant, bi-weekly updates (meaning once every two weeks don't get crazy now)  
> anyway big thanks to bri for beta reading this right quick for me lov u.

_Adrian,_

_This is the last letter I will have the chance to write to you for some time._

_I’m leaving the bakery and don’t know where I might end up- I’ll write you again soon, don’t worry, and give you my new address when I can._

_Give Amalie my love and remind her she’s still the best of all of you, no matter how much Eirik tugs on her hair. Tell Thea and Jakob to spit in the Madame’s drink for me- just for fun._

_And as for the bet you had going- I wasn’t sacked, you nit. So you, Eirik, and Tom can keep the dust in your pockets that you had bet on my getting kicked out- in fact, I was all but begged to stay on._

_Stay out of trouble! And don’t burn down the home._

_(Unless everyone but the Madame makes it out safe. Then you have my blessing.)_

_Yours,_

_Isaias_

_*_

**28\. Desember, 1927**

**07:21**

**Oslo Central Station**

Even sat on a wooden bench, wet with melted snow, on the platform. He had one long leg slung over another, his knee jiggling impatiently.

Isaias was cutting it too close for comfort.

People walked by- families, business men, people traveling to escape for a moment or for a lifetime.

It was freezing.

On the bench next to him sat Eskild, reading an old newspaper inconspicuously. He tutted at Even, who checked his watch for a fourth time in the last few minutes.

“He’ll be here,” Eskild muttered, his eyes still on the page.

Even uncrossed his legs and re-crossed them.

“This was _your_ idea, I’ll remind you,” Eskild turned the page. A train pulled away with a noisy blow of its whistle.

Even hung his head and gave an exaggerated sigh. “It wasn’t _my_ idea for our new royal family member to be _arrested-_ and if we hadn’t gone looking for him last night when he didn’t show, what then? He didn’t come to us straight away and that’s not encouraging. I have a right to be worried, Eskild. He’s gone from our ticket out of here to a flight risk.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. Even had taken this project on thinking he could play his hand at being a true director- except, instead of a movie, he’d be directing the greatest act in all Norway.

 _The Royal Hoax._ Or maybe _Le Canular Royal,_ if he was feeling fancy- and he often was.

But he had a hunch not even Charlie Chaplin ever had to deal with what Isaias had put _him_ through so far.

“He’ll show up,” Eskild insisted, his mouth pursed. “He’s as invested in this as us- more, even, if he really believes he could be the Dowager’s grandson.”

“He _is,”_ Even snapped, finally turning to make eye contact. “Eskild, for this to work we have to believe this more than he does. If he thinks we don’t, he’ll get spooked and run and I’m not risking that, especially once we’re out of Norway.”

 _Out of Norway._ Even had spoke about leaving for as long as he could remember. Now that it was here, he was more anxious than ever that they would fail before they ever really began.

_He needed this._

Eskild rolled his eyes, “Okay, okay, Director. Not a negative word shall reach Isak’s ears from mine own mouth, I swear it!” Eskild drawled and shut his paper exaggeratedly,  laying it across his heart, as though he were swearing an oath.

Even huffed a bit. Sometimes he thought the thing that kept him and Eskild together for so long- and what made them quarrel, as well- was their shared flair for the dramatic.

And as if summoned by magic, he spotted those familiar blond curls, walking through the gates onto the main platform.

His leading man had finally arrived- with only six minutes to spare.

Even and Eskild grabbed their bags and met Isaias- or Isak? Eskild insisted on calling him Isak, but Even still wasn’t so sure- just as their train pulled in, its wheels shrieking and letting off steam that set the whole platform in a slight haze.

“Is that all you’re bringing?” Eskild asked, sounding critical. Isaias was dressed in his usual tattered long brown coat, as dirty from neglect and ill fitting as the plain brown trousers and once-white shirt underneath it. He had tattered gloves on to shield him from the cold and a half empty messenger’s bag on his shoulder.

“It’s all I own,” the boy answered, looking off to the side. His pale cheeks and nose had turned an embarrassed shade of pink. His jaw was set in a way that Even knew well- anger and embarassment in the face of poverty. It didn’t matter how long someone’s been a pauper, owning nothing was never something someone was proud of.

It’s why Even was where he was now.

Even remembered not owning a thing- not that he had much now, but he’d been where Isaias had been for longer than he liked. And he told himself it was the poor aspiring pickpocket child inside him that inspired the sudden urge to comfort the Faux Prince- not the way his cupid’s bow lips pursed.

“Well, ah,” Eskild tried to recover. “You have your travel visa, at least, I hope!”

Isaias nodded, looking as wound up as Even felt.

Their train’s first boarding whistle sounded and startled all three of them. Even’s grip on his bag tightened and Eskild threw his arm around Isaias, who seemed to grow only more uncomfortable, and announced that they were off.

“Okay,” Eskild said, a chipper smile on his face. “Adventure awaits, boys!”

Even didn’t need to be told twice. He turned without a word and led the way, the grip on his bag tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

With every step, he could feel the tension that had built up in him over the last few weeks melt away.

This was it. This was it.

He had been so close, so focused all this time, so aware of the rug that could be pulled out from under him at any moment. Now, they were one train ride away from being all but free.

He would get on that train, with a guaranteed shot at a future by his side, and he could finally leave it all behind-

the stares, the whispers, the weight in his chest-

and he was headed for the stars.

*

Isaias had never seen a train in person before.

There were trains in one of the books he had at the orphanage, but the brief descriptions could never stand up to what it was like in life.  

It was amazing- a huge black, metal beast, longer than he could see, with dark grey smoke billowing from the top and even more coating the platform.

He clutched his bag closer to him- it less than half empty, containing only some paper, a pencil, his travel visa (which Eskild gave him), a pair of socks, and the book he had stolen from the castle (which he hadn’t had the time nor the energy to even crack open since meeting the two men dragging him aboard the intimidating black monster).

He didn’t have the words or even the thoughts to understand what he was feeling.

They boarded the train and found an empty compartment towards the end, with plush red bench seats and the three men settled down- Isaias sitting near the window on one side, clutching his bag in his lap, and Even and Eskild on the other side, their bags near their feet.

“Well,” Eskild clapped his hands together. “This is it. Goodbye, grey old Norway!”

He was so happy to leave- and Isaias was too.

Wasn’t he?

He remembered what Jonas had told him just yesterday. _Be grateful for what you have now, for who you are now._

Was this a mistake? Isaias had no idea what would happen now- Norway had been difficult. It had given him every trial and tribulation, harsh and unfeeling like its winter winds.

But hadn’t all that he had known to be good existed there, too? Amalie and Aiden and even Tom and Eirik- It was where he’d met Madhi and Magnus, who he hoped were still safe wherever they were. It was where the Andals took pity on him and gave him a home, where he had earned his living.

Would the outside world only offer more hardships, this time far away from what little comfort and security he had?

He looked out the window, where they could see all the people rushing around and waiting on the platform- and amidst the hustle and bustle, he saw families. Families with small children, and older children, fighting or hugging or tugging on sleeves.

But they weren’t only leaving Norway, Isaias thought. They were going somewhere, he had to remember.

They were going to _Paris._ His hand wandered to his jacket, just above his heart, for maybe the hundredth time that morning and he took comfort and courage from the solid shape he found hidden there.

_Together in Paris._

_*_

Even wasn’t a trusting kind of man. He knew he had a charming smile, a way with words, and an open demeanor with people. But, truth be told, those were more tools in his arsenal than truth. A conman couldn’t con anyone into trusting him if he didn’t seem trustworthy. He’d learned that early on.

He had a tight-knit circle of those whom he relied on and who knew more secrets about him than even he was comfortable with- those were the people he truly trusted. And among those true friends left in Norway were Eskild-

and only Eskild, to be exact.

So, looking at Isaias staring out the window onto the platform- his expression so readable, seeming to all the world like he might flee at any minute- wasn’t something Even took particular comfort in. Isaias was the key to this whole plan, and if he decided to bail out, that was it.

 _He made it this far, he won’t turn back now,_ Even reminded himself.

Still, he was going to keep an eye on the Faux Prince until they were well away from Norway.

Even watched Isaias, lost in his worries, put his hand over his heart. He was surprised when the blond seemed to gain some sort of resolve just then and wondered what was going through his mind.

Isaias turned to address him and Eskild, asking softly, “Will you miss it?”

Even scoffed immediately.

“No,” he said, crossing his legs. “Norway’s been living in the past for too long, and I’m all for leaving the past where it belongs.”

Isaias only stared- alright, perhaps that was a bit cryptic, but Norway was a cryptic country, and Even wasn’t shy about wanting to be free of it.

“And you?” he turned his eyes toward Eskild, looking for something. Maybe he wanted Eskild to share in whatever sentimental delusion he had about Norway. Tough luck there.

“Well, if I were to miss anything,” his partner in crime answered, “it would be the men.”

Even held back a snort of amusement. _There it was._

Even had insisted that Eskild keep the _usual_ comedy turned down while they tried their best to remain low the last few weeks- and so he didn’t spook their most fragile investment- but of course, he had to break sometime.

“What?” Isaias answered, maybe a little too loudly. “You’re… Are you-”

He was _really_ concerned about this, wasn’t he?

“A homosexual?” Eskild asked, proudly. “Or _gay_ would be the new slang for it- you know, it means _pleasant._ I quite like the connotation, don’t you? Much better than ‘queer’ _,_ anyway. I’m a _gay_ kind of fellow all ‘round.” He laughed.

When Isaias only stared, Eskild and Even raised their eyebrows.

“Should we be worried about something?” Even asked pointedly. It certainly would be unexpected- maybe even a little disappointing- and complicate things between the three if their trump card  decided it wasn’t worth it to be around a couple of _fairies,_ but Even could deal with it. He was good at dealing with people.

“I- no! _God,_ no,” Isaias said, his bright green eyes wide. Even relaxed just a fraction. _Good._

Isaias leaned in and brought his voice down. “But you could be _arrested,_ Eskild, that’s not- it’s not legal!” he whispered fiercely, as though people in the other compartments might hear them.

Even quirked a brow.

“Dearest _child_ ,” Eskild tutted, “I have the privilege of not only being a _rampant_ homosexual man,” Isaias blushed,  “but also being one of Oslo’s top criminals, wanted for, among other things: pickpocketing, theft, affiliation with the royal family, selling royal goods, and, now, conspiracy to reinstate the heir to the royal crown. Now, out of all of this, you think I’ll be arrested for sleeping with a man?”

Even smiled. Sometimes he forgot that was even a concern. Eskild was discreet enough- in that he didn’t go up to military police officers and kiss them smack on the lips. But he wasn’t shy about flirting with men when they went to their normal bars or clubs, whether Eskild was their “preference” or not. People who went to the kinds of places Even and Eskild frequented weren’t a problem. Not to mention the numerous times Even was displaced for the night so Eskild could have “company.” Even didn’t mind- he knew Eskild would do the same for him, he just chose not to get invested like Eskild did.

Something about Isaias’s reaction amused and intrigued Even- he was shocked, but not disgusted. Which maybe was normal for a kid who grew up in an orphanage hours outside of civilization and had never really lived in the real world. But he looked- again, on that face that was almost shockingly revealing- all in succession, shocked, affronted, in awe, and then terribly embarrassed. He pouted when he was embarrassed, Even noted.

“What about you?” Eskild turned the question on him. “What will you miss, Prince Isak?”

He sighed in return- short and defensive. “I still wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“It’s your name,” Eskild reasoned.

“It- it isn’t though,” Isaias said. “Or, not now, at least.”

Eskild appealed to Even, “Even, tell him it’ll be good for him- he can’t live as himself if he’s not _himself_ . But also- it just _sounds better!_ Right?”

Even shrugged, “it’s his choice.”

Eskild rolled his eyes. “Well, I think it sounds better, anyway.”

Isaias mumbled something to Eskild, avoided Even’s gaze altogether, and moved his attention to the window. That was that, Even supposed.

The train whistle gave a loud scream and slowly, slowly, they started pulling away.

*

Isaias didn’t know where they were or if they were still in Norway at all- which was a new feeling for him. Even going into Oslo from the orphanage, he’d known somewhat what to expect from the people and the environment. If they were already out of Norway- who knew what waited.

They had been riding for maybe two or three hours now, made two stops, and were still going. The air had considerably cleared since they left the train station- Isaias and Eskild fell into companionable conversation, which went on and off depending on Isaias’s mood. Eskild told him they were headed to Sweden, where they would go to France by way of Germany. Knowing the plan settled Isaias’s fears somewhat, and though he probably wouldn’t tell him, so did Eskild’s friendly conversation.

He discovered Eskild did not enjoy books, talked a _lot_ about men he’d ‘known’ (which made Isaias uncomfortable, but Eskild didn’t seem to mind that), and was a fan of jazz music and often frequented the one or two underground clubs Oslo offered- which Isaias had no idea existed and even less of an idea of what jazz actually sounded like.

Eskild was scandalized by this information (and more so that Isaias had never seen a record player). He did his best to explain, but it evolved into more of an amusing display of sounds he could make with his mouth and funny finger movements. Isaias nodded anyway but didn’t make any commitments when Eskild suggested they find some jazzy entertainment once in Sweden.

Throughout all this, Even had his nose thoroughly buried in a stack of papers he’d produced from his bag about an hour into the trip. Isaias tried very, very hard not to look at him, all set brow and intense blue eyes as he devoured whatever was in those papers- but he still did. And sometimes Even would look back- other times he would fancy that maybe _Even_ was looking at _him_ first, but that was silly- and Isaias knew he’d been caught, and try as he might to look unaffected, he knew his face pinked every time.

Just as there was another lull in the conversation he was having with Eskild about foreign foods- another topic Isaias knew “ _shockingly little”_ about- the train pulled to its third stop and Eskild announced he was off to get drinks.

“Would you like anything, _Isak?”_ he stressed the name and Isaias pursed his lips.

It was such a ridiculous thing for _someone else_ to be stubborn over- shouldn’t _he_ get to choose _his own name?_ He hated that Eskild implied that _Isak_ was who he really was- well, maybe it was. That’s why he went with them in the first place, to figure that out. But if Isak is who he was- what happened to Isaias? That’s what bothered him.

He said no to the bourbon and Eskild left with a little flourish of his coat.

Leaving Isaias and Even very alone.

Isaias’s curiosity about whatever Even was _very_ pointedly reading got the better of him, so he asked.

“It’s a script,” Even explained, looking at him for just a moment. He didn’t seem _upset,_ but Isaias thought he must have been because he refused to meet his eyes for long.

“For a stage play?” he asked. He’d never seen one, but he’d met a woman who frequented the theater once, an old woman who loved telling long stories about all the theaters she’d gone to and who tipped well.

“Sort of- but, no. It’s for a film.”

“A film? Like the moving pictures?” Isaias asked- and perhaps he oughtn’t have, because Even raised his eyebrows and Isaias felt silly for not knowing something- _again._ “I’ve- I’ve seen one.” He lied through his teeth, defensive at Even’s look.

He could _know_ things.

“Have you?” Even asked, his eyebrows going impossibly higher. “Did you catch the talkie that showed a few months ago at Oslo Cinema? _The Jazz Singer?”_

“Of course,” Isaias said as if it were _offensive_ to think he hadn’t.

(Of course, he hadn’t.)

Even smiled and something about his smile made Isaias want to earn his approval.

“What did you think of Jakie’s performance at the end?” he asked and Isaias’s heart went straight to his ears.

_Um._

“Uh,” he stammered. “I think she was great.”

Even’s smile grew impish and Isaias thought he’d gotten off Scot free- until Even said, “He.”

“Huh?”

“Jakie, the character. He’s a man.”

“Oh- I, uh,” Isaias reached for an answer, an excuse, but before he could think of anything Eskild opened the compartment door and called out, “gentlemen!” before hurriedly stepping in and shutting it behind him.

“We have a problem,” he informed them gravely.

*

Even couldn’t believe it.

He couldn’t _fucking_ believe it.

After all this time, all the planning and long lessons on royal history with little progress, and worrying-

Eskild got them the _wrong. Color. Travel visas._

“They were stamped blue last week, I swear, I saw it myself!” He’d said in explanation.

Isaias looked like he might throw up, his face going from a charming pink when Even had caught him in that lie, to white as a sheet.

Even should have known this would have happened- he thought he was finally able to relax- they were so _close_ to Sweden, literal hours from the border. Maybe this was what he deserved- but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

“What’s going to happen to us?” the younger blond asked.

“Well,” Even said irritatedly. “When the conductor comes, if they check our tickets _and_ our papers, they’ll realize the papers are fake and send us back to Oslo, to the loving arms of the Captain of the police, most likely. But we still have a chance-“

_Bang! Bang!_

Even went totally still. He listened and, after another minute, another loud _bang_ was heard- doors being forced open, maybe. But they were far enough away that they could get out.

“We have to get off this train,” He stood quickly, Isaias following his lead-

Only for all three of them to be thrown back down as the train lurched forward.

“Shit,” Eskild muttered, detangling his arms from Even’s legs. “ _Shit!”_

 _Shit_ was right. Even struggled his way up and peeked out the compartment door, spotting a rather unfriendly uniformed figure through the window into the next compartment over.

_The police._

They’d been found and chased down, there was no other reason for them to go searching the train while it was still in transit- their armed friends didn’t want them escaping.

Eskild took in a deep breath. “Dear Jesus I’m going to be sick. Maybe we can escape them at the next stop even if they find us, it’s not like they can take us anywhere until-”

Another _bang_ rang out- but this time, it wasn’t a door slamming open. It was a gunshot.

“I think getting caught isn’t on the table, Eskild,” Even said lowly.

Jesus, what should they do? _Think, think._

They were almost at the tail end of a moving train, going faster every second, with armed murderers making their way to them.

“We’re close to the luggage car,” Isaias said suddenly. “We can hide there- maybe they won’t check there.”

_That’s it!_

“They’ll still check the luggage car,” Even said, grabbing his bag quickly. “But we can still use it. I have an idea, come on!”

The three men grabbed their things and, checking to make sure the coast was clear, made a break for the end of the train.

*

The luggage car was the last car on the train. Unlike the other cars, which passengers were encouraged to move between, there were no steps in between the cars- nothing except the couplers, which kept the cars together, and some metal chains for leverage in case an attendant needed to open it while the train was still in motion.

Isaias opened the door to the outside first. The high speed winter winds felt like a dozen needles pricking his face, whipping his hair every which way. He was about to grab onto the handle and make the little hop it took to jump cars, but-  

The luggage car was locked. There was a chain and a medium sized metal padlock keeping them from their only chance at hiding- and Isaias thought they were done for, when Even produced two long wire tools from a pouch in his bag and gently pulled Isaias back inside. He moved past him and bent over across the precarious gap, breaking the lock open in twenty seconds flat.

“Where’d you learn that?” Isaias asked, impressed.

“Around,” Even shrugged, not sparing Isaias a second look before he threw open the door and used his long legs to gracefully step into the luggage car. Isaias and Eskild followed, closing the door behind them hastily.

“What now?” Isaias asked.

Even looked from him to Eskild, and then all around. The luggage car was dark with a few slatted windows for light. There were different suitcases and boxes all around them, personal affects separated from wooden delivery crates.

After a few seconds of silence Even said, “Now- we separate the cars.”

“We _what?”_ Eskild reeled back. “Even with _what?_ Do you _just happen_ to have a blowtorch on you?”

“No,” Even answered. “But- there has to be something here that will help us. Eskild, what do you have on you?”

“Ah- my clothes, some matches and cigars, a bit of money, a watch, and some pictures.”

“Okay, not helpful. I don’t have anything strong enough to undo the couplers on me, either- let’s tear through this stuff- there has to be something. And if you find anything useful at all, weapons or just blunt objects, take it.” Even turned and ripped open the first bag he could find.

“We’re going to die,” Isaias heard Eskild mutter.

He didn’t know if he disagreed.

*

“I’ll start at the back,” Isaias volunteered. While Eskild and Even tore through the front and middle luggage trunks, he headed backwards and started prying open crates, digging through the packing hay as quick as he could.

 _Clothes, clothes, horseshoes- maybe._ He grabbed a few and set them aside, already moving on to another crate.

“Here’s some rope,” Even called.

_Painting, painting, painting- who needs so many fucking paintings?!_

A loud bang sounded from the car over- damn it.

“I found a crowbar! Anything, Isak?” Eskild called to him.

“Don’t _call me that,”_ Isaias yelled in frustration, his face turning red with effort as he finally pried open a particularly stubborn lid.

_Shoes, shoes, hats, more fucking packing hey- wait-_

_*_

Even called out to the other two as he rummaged through a large traveling trunk. _Fuck and damn it all, just more bedding._ “We need something we can use as a weapon, or maybe some fireworks or-”

Isaias popped his head up from the pile of crates he was rummaging through and called, “or dynamite, would dynamite work?”

Even snorted, “Yeah, that would be perfect,” he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm. Even didn’t know if he believed in luck, but even a fucking leprechaun wouldn’t have that kind of-

Isaias stuck a stick of bright red dynamite right under his nose.

“What the _hell?”_ Even asked, taken aback. “Where did you _find that?”_

Isaias shrugged, “around,” he answered, not even bothering to hide his smirk. Even couldn’t even move as he watched Isaias take two more sticks, bundle them together with Eskild’s rope, and move towards the door.

“Pretty _and_ dangerous,” Eskild laughed.

Even shoved him a little, “shut up and get your matches!”

“Oh, right!” Eskild scrambled for his bag.

In front of them, Isaias was trying the bundle of dynamite to the couplers- and through the porthole-shaped window on the car door- he met eyes with Captain Jonas Vasquez.

“Fuck,” Even muttered. He grabbed the matches out of Eskild's hands as soon as he found them and ran them to Isaias.

“I’ll just, ah, be here,” Eskild shouted, slumping down.

There was a moment where, as Even was handing them off and the other boy let go of the floor’s edge to take them, Isaias swayed a little too much. Even dropped down and grabbed him around the middle to keep him steady. Just past Isaias, he could see the bundle of dynamite tied expertly to the couplers and he took a minute to take in the person he was holding onto, a look of stark concentration in his eyes as he tried to light a match in the vicious wind.

“Do they teach this kind of shit at orphanages?” Even called above the sound of the train and wind.

“Only the good ones,” Isaias retorted.

The door flung open, and they were face to face with a pistol- held tightly in Captain Vasquez’s hand.

*

Jonas couldn’t say he was surprised when the next morning came and reports of Isaias’s disappearance reached him.

The conmen had taken him. Bech Næsheim and Tryggvason had convinced him in the night to run away, and now Jonas had no choice.

 _Capture the boy alive, and the others if you can help it. But his life is the one that matters, he’s a pedestrian in all of this._ Those were his orders when they set out that morning.

Jonas flung open that car door, with three men at his back, pistols drawn. His captain’s hat was whipped away by the wind, and he saw- Bech Næsheim holding the boy for dear life and- _was that dynamite?!_

Jonas signaled for his men to put their arms down, but kept his gun trained on Bech Næsheim- while his eyes stayed on Isaias.

“Isaias,” he said in a ruefully cheerful tone. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Bech Næsheim’s hold around the boy tightened and Jonas, in turn, gripped his pistol harder.

“Jonas,” the boy returned.

“It isn’t too late,” Jonas tried to reason. “We can still go catch that smoke, you know?”

He was sure Isaias would come with him- he was choosing between life and death here, and no orphan’s fancy of pretending at being dead royalty was stronger than facing that choice.

_Choose right, Isaias._

“He’s just a little tied up at the moment, Captain,” Bech Næsheim said snidely.

Jonas ignored him. “Isaias, come with me. We both know it’s what you need.”

*

_What did he need?_

What he needed was time to think.

He had thought for a long time that he was the smartest, quickest thinker he knew. He could read, read books all day long when he was allowed. He’d memorized poems and prose and entire passages of encyclopedias- whatever he could get his hands on.

But what use was any of that now? Now he was just a stupid boy stuck between two people, he didn’t know who- or what- or anything about himself.

Isaias was faced with two clear paths- although either one really ended in something going _boom_ much closer to his person than he was admittedly happy with.

He looked up at the barrel of Jonas’s pistol.

He looked down at the matches in his hand.

Which one should he take?

*

Even spoke low and careful in Isaias’s ear. “Light the match. Do it. He won’t shoot, he’ll have to run, light it!”

Even’s stomach was doing somersaults. His entire life rested in the literal hands of this boy- who could risk dying for him or could go back safely with the protection of the military police.

He had to do something.

“Isak,” Eskild called from behind them. Even saw Jonas glance past them in annoyance, but the gun didn’t move. “Isak, don’t listen to him!”

“Isaias,” Jonas said, obviously less patient. “You’re a Norwegian boy, born and bred. Same as I am. Come back, don’t let these men get in your mind with these delusions of grandeur.”

“Isak, _trust us- this is where you belong_.” Even said urgently, his grip around his waist turning ironclad.  “Come on, Isak.”

*

Jonas braced his feet on the train’s carpet and held his free hand out as Isaias looked up at him.

Isaias elbowed Bech Næsheim to loosen his grip. Jonas smiled triumphantly and stuck his hand out farther. From where he was, crouched down low, Isaias fiddled a bit, finding his balance and said, “I read a poem once,”.

“Maybe this isn’t the time to-” he cut Jonas off.

“It was by Robert Frost, written maybe a decade ago or more. It talks about there being a clear choice, being happy you made that choice. It reads, “ _two roads diverge in a yellow wood.”_

Jonas furrowed his thick brows.

“And then,” Isaias said, pushing Bech Næsheim off of him and slowly rising, gripping the sides of the doorway to the luggage car for balance. “A bunch of bullshit about sighing and leaves. And- and he said,” Isaias reached out his hand and Jonas took a moment to savor the look of dismay on Tryggvason and Bech Næsheim’s faces.

“I took the road less traveled,” Isaias said and he slapped Jonas’s hand away.

_What?_

_*_

_What?_

Even’s head reeled as he saw Isak slap Jonas away and turn back into the car and behind him- behind him was sparks and smoke.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

_He’d lit the dynamite!_

_“_ Go! Go, go!” Isak shouted frantically and the three ran for the back of the car. Even saw Jonas curse and turn to run, just before a deafening _boom_ went off, and his whole world went upside down in a haze of smoke.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so thats it hope it wasn't too corny i definitely caught myself sounding like a disney channel original movie script writer for a sec but ive been itching to write for a while and just wanted to pull the trigger and get it out there ahhhhh blease review and save me anguish or whatever


	6. In the Dark of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even and Isaias don't know what to do with each other.   
> Isaias has a little too much to drink.   
> Eskild is also there.

He faded in, and out, and back in again. 

Even’s ears were ringing and his lungs felt full of smoke, his entire consciousness consumed by a thick grey haze. His limbs were too heavy to move and his eyes were unseeing. Was he blind? Was it night? Which way was up? Or down? He didn’t know. 

He was so cold. If he twitched his fingers he could feel snow shifting around him. 

He was alive. Probably. 

He became aware at some point that it was getting hard to breathe- too hard. His lungs stuttered under a heavy weight and he clenched his eyes tight, trying to will himself to call out, find the strength to suck in air and scream for help-

And then his world was flooded with light. The weight pressing his body into the ground gone, Even felt his lungs expand with a rush of air and relief.

“Even, thank god!” He heard Eskild cry out above him, voice thick with emotion. 

Even moved to push himself off the ground from where he was, half buried in snow. His every muscle and joint ached in protest, but he did it. He sat up and gave himself a moment for the ringing to stop and for the blurriness at the edges of his vision to clear. It took a while, but Eskild and Isaias were right there on either side of him when he could finally speak. 

“What,” Even said finally, his voice rough and weary, “the fuck.”

*

Even watched silently as Isaias saw to his injuries. Thankfully enough, nothing was permanent and only his arm was bleeding, a bit. Nothing was broken, and the ache in his body was already beginning to fade. Eskild was mostly fine and Isaias had sustained only a few injuries, the most visible being a cut along one of his high cheekbones, already treated with a bit of cheesecloth and sellotape.  

Even was perched on a piece of wood scrap among the wreckage of the baggage car, sitting still as a statue while Isaias worked. The whole front of the car had splintered off and the rest had rolled off the tracks, large chunks of blown-off wood and luggage scattering everywhere in the process. There was probably something poetic about the destroyed car, full of worldly possessions, scattered like a war zone in the pure white snow. Even’s head hurt too much to think on what the poetry would be. Something about innocence lost or opportunities gained, perhaps. 

_ Maybe something by Robert Frost,  _ he thought wryly. What a surprise that had been.

Even watched as Isaias finished wrapping a makeshift bandage around his arm, his breath mingling with Even’s own in the cold winter air. Even tried to meet his eyes once, twice, three times- but the other man refused to look away from his work, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Even had always been a curious person, but he hadn’t thought there was much to be curious  _ about  _ when it came to Isaias. He was attractive, for sure. But that didn’t mean he’d let a handsome boy distract him from something he’d had in the making for well over a year- so he stuck to the plan.

When he was nervous or bored or jittery with energy- Even read. Screenplays, scripts, scenes from stuffy century old theater. He loved being able to see the planning, the bones of a piece right in front of him- the most visually stunning plays and films all started there. So Even wrote a script for himself in his head. 

Keep to the plan, let it unfold in front of him like a film. Even Bech N æsheim’s first masterpiece.  It opened with a poor young man in an oppressive, run down country breaking out, pulling off the most convincing scam of all time, and getting all the money he’d ever need to follow his dreams- and more. 

But an exploding train hadn’t been in the script. Isaias having more cleverness and courage in that curly head of his than any futureless, hopeless orphan from the middle of nowhere had any right to be wasn’t in the script. 

Even being  _ curious _ wasn’t in the script. 

He pushed down that telltale tug when Isaias’s eyes finally flickered up, looking as though he’d been caught as their eyes locked. This was not happening. 

But still. Even couldn’t help saying “Thank you, by the way.” It came out warmer than he intended. At Isaias’s confused reaction he clarified, “For the quick thinking- you saved us.”

Isaias’s hands stilled around his arm. He nodded tightly and turned back to his work. 

Even’s eyebrows furrowed. 

Wait, was that it?

A few more seconds ticked by. Silence was all the answer he received. 

Even sighed, long and a bit dramatic, catching Isaias’s attention again. “Although I won’t lie, I could have done without the near-death experience, and my ass could have done with a few fewer bruises but- _ow!”_ He yelped a bit as Isaias pulled the bandage around his tender upper arm a little too _tight._

“Whoops?” Isaias shrugged, the ghost of a teasing smile on his face. 

Even put only a  _ little  _ effort into not smiling back. 

“Well,” Eskild called from where he was digging around inside the overturned car. “Most everything is intact, only a bit of charring here and there.” He crawled out with an expensive looking suitcase in hand. “We can pick through and take what we need before heading on our way.” 

Even nodded. On their way. To Sweden, presumably. Although how they were to get there or even how far they were from the border, none of them knew. The cold wind bit at his cheeks. The sun was high in the sky- but not for long. They had to get moving as soon as possible.

*

Isaias was surprised that it didn’t take them long to sort through the wreckage- but a bulk of the cargoes seemed to be expensive clothing for women or paintings that were obviously of no use to them. They only took things that were small, useful, or valuable. 

Isaias got himself a new travel bag- a proper brown leather travel bag, sturdy and  _ his,  _ now. He filled it with his own things plus the little bit of food they’d found and a few new plain white shirts. Eskild had thrown a coat his way, larger and much more properly insulated than his own. Isaias muttered a “thank you, but no,” and changed the subject quickly.

He changed his beat-up boots and gloves (both of which had holes) for some new ones. The boots were a little big, but he figured he was still growing and they weren’t bad to walk in. A fact which he was thankful for two and a half hours later because it turned out, finding one’s way back to civilization after being dumped in the middle of nowhere involved a  _ lot  _ of walking. 

They hadn’t been far from the edge of a forest, so they followed that and found a dirt path, the snow worn away from use. Carriages used this road, it looked like, frequent enough to keep the path clear, even in ten centimeters of snow. So they walked that path- and, thankfully, it wasn’t long before they saw a covered wagon lead by two horses in the distance. The sun was starting to set, but Isaias could just make out the driver. Sitting at the head was a large middle-aged man with a fiery beard and a muscled physique. He was bundled up for the cold, in a heavy coat and fur hat. Despite his seemingly intimidating size, Isaias thought his face- with a smile and a tip of the hat as soon as he saw the three of them ankle deep in snow with their travel bags- didn’t look unkind.

“Goodness me,” Eskild muttered as they flagged the carriage and the man pulled his horses to a stop. “He’s  _ delicious.”  _

Isaias almost choked. 

“Hello!” Eskild called to the driver. “What’s your name, my  _ good fellow?”  _

The man’s name was Asbjørn, he answered from his seat. His voice was deep and eyes trusting- not the weary kind of curiosity a Norwegian would give a stranger on the best of days.  

“This might seem a bit foolish,” Isaias watched with wide eyes as Eskild smiled and simpered so openly. “But might we happen to be close to Sweden? We’ve been completely turned around.”

Asbjørn nodded and answered with a thick Swedish accent. “So y’are. I live just on th’other side o’ the border. Deliver wanted goods from Sweden time ta time.”

Isaias could feel the relief in the air as they asked to tag along with Asbjørn in his travels; he was headed back towards Sweden after some sales in a not too far village and agreed to take them to his home, only half a day’s ride away. It was decided that in return, the three of them would help with anything he needed until they found their way to their next destination. For a chance to get off his feet and the promise of a warm fire, Isaias would have agreed to anything. 

They stored their bags and thanked the red-haired man profusely- none so much as Eskild, though. 

“I’m a wizard in the kitchen,” Eskild added. “I’d be more than happy to help your wife, to show my thanks.”

“No wife,” Asbjørn grunted in return. “I live on m’own. Gets lonely sometimes, but I‘m glad t’have the odd traveler keep me comp’ny now an’ again.”  

Eskild made a beeline for the spare space in the front and saddled right up next to Asbjørn.

Isaias tried not to balk. 

He and Even climbed into the covered compartment, settling down among boxes and hay, Even barely concealing his laughter and Isaias, stunned into silence with beet-red cheeks. With the sun growing lower in the sky, they set off, and tried to get some sleep. 

Or not. 

As it turned out, it was incredibly hard to sleep in a wagon when Isaias had his legs pulled up to his chin, shins knocking into the wooden corners of crates- or Even’s elbows- with every jostle. Not to mention having hay in places he had never imagined hay could  _ go.  _

And then there was Eskild. 

“And you raise sheep, too? I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone so self-sufficient  _ and  _ caring!” Eskild’s voice cut through the thin cloth of the covered wagon that separated them. 

Isaias’s surprise at Eskild’s brazenness had lasted only an hour into their ride. When the other man didn’t seem to be slowing down or shutting up in the slightest, he could very steadily feel his shock turn to annoyance. 

They had just escaped the jaws of death,  _ barely.  _ Isaias thought it a miracle they were alive, and while they were still in danger of being caught in Norway’s borders, Eskild chose this time to be- to be-

He huffed sharply, shooting narrow-eyed looks in the direction of the wagon’s front. When he looked away, he caught Even’s eye, who had obviously noticed Isaias’s discomfort. Even raised his eyebrows in silent question, his face unamused. 

_ Problem? _

Isaias looked away. 

_ No.  _ Fuck, of course he didn’t have a problem- not in the way Even was assuming. Of course not. 

He could feel an explanation on the tip of his tongue. A defense against the accusation in Even’s eyes that he wanted- no, didn’t want to- couldn’t give. 

He looked Even’s way again and found him halfway to sleeping, his head lolled to one side.

He said nothing.

_ Let him think what he will,  _ Isaias circled his arms around his legs, drawing himself tighter inward. Keep it together.

Eskild’s laugh pierced through the air and Isaias tensed. He’d never been around someone who was so- so-

Brazen? Unashamed? 

So  _ Eskild.  _

He didn’t know why, but listening to Eskild flirt with the tradesman was more than annoying him due to lack of sleep- it set some kind of trigger off that put him on edge and he  _ hated it.  _

He closed his eyes and pictured himself in a cramped bed with Amalie, small and shaking from a nightmare, in his arms.  _ Breathe,  _ he would tell her.  _ Keep your eyes shut tight. Breathe.  _

Try as Isaias might have to follow Even into the peacefulness of sleep, it did not come easily. 

*

It was early morning when the wagon pulled to a stop and Even was met with the sight of Asbjørn pulling the wagon’s cloth panels to the side.

“Get up, ye great lazy things,” his chipper voice boomed in laughter. Even nudged Isaias- who groaned and shifted away from the light, smacking his head on a crate in the process. 

“Arck-  _ damn it,”  _ he shrieked. Even bit back a laugh. He’d never seen Isaias like this, first thing in the morning. It was- almost endearing, how unprepared he was to let go of sleep. He took one last look at the boy tending to his minor head wound before climbing out of the wagon- he was up and out before Isaias had even opened his eyes, really. Eventually, after a bit of prodding from Eskild, the other boy emerged, dark circles under his eyes and a frown set in place. 

“Awake, my sweet prince!” Even watched Eskild throw his arms around the other boy, the two of them almost toppling into the snow. 

The air was crisp, cold. The sun high in the sky. They were in  _ Sweden.  _ Even smiled and felt something move within him. He’d never been off of Norwegian soil before, and though they weren’t far from the border- Even felt lighter and more optimistic about their journey than he ever had. 

This was the first big step, and they made it.  

“So,” Even turned towards the others, felt the sweet, free Swedish wind on his face and asked, “what now?”

*

The wind was fucking  _ cold.  _ Isaias tried his best to bury his face in his jacket and scarf.

Asbjørn’s house was a modest, single story farmhouse with peeling white paint. It was in the middle of a small clearing, surrounded by forest on most sides. Near to the main house was a small covered barn, and a fenced off area where a few goats and sheep were ambling about in the early morning sun, glistening off the snow.

They stretched the ache from their limbs, brushed the hay from their clothes, and helped unload the empty crates and store them in the small barn while Asbjørn took care of the horses. 

“I’ve only the horses an’ a few other lit’l ‘uns. S’mostly running the goods from one town ‘ta th’next that keeps me afloat,” Asbjørn fed a stray bit of carrot to one of the horses as he penned it up, stroking its nose gently. 

“Well, come on, then!” the burly man straightened his fur hat. “Let’s get inside an’ rest up a bit, then we can see what the three of ye can help me out wit ‘round the old place, eh?”

He led them inside his home, large and welcoming with antlers on the walls and dark wood floors. The entrance led straight to a large sitting room, with a fireplace, two sofas, and a dining table in the corner. Asbjørn started up a fire and Even asked about this or that pair of antlers and the life of someone who hunted. He made conversation so easily, Isaias was almost surprised. It wasn’t like he thought Even wasn’t charming- or, maybe he didn’t know what he thought, really.

It was almost fascinating, seeing him nod and listen to Asbjørn’s stories of this buck or that, laughing and asking genuine questions in all the right places. He seemed- honest, open, easy in a way Isaias hadn’t experienced up close with Even. 

There were a few doors off on both sides of the room, which Isaias assumed led to a bedroom and kitchen of some sort- which he found was right as Asbjørn led them into the kitchen for some porridge and eggs. 

Isaias watched as Even helped cook up the eggs- despite Asbjørn’s protest that their help later would be enough- working like he’d been in Asbjørn’s kitchen a hundred times, and then the four of them sat around the dining room table, eating and chatting as the fire grew stronger. 

*

The labor wasn’t bad. It was cold and it was early, but Isaias was used to running heavy stock here and there in the bakery back in Oslo, heavy bags of flour or sugar that were packed in bulk for the hundreds of buns or muffins the Andals turned out daily. It didn’t seem like Even and Eskild had the same experience, and Isaias took the lead in moving boxes of this or that and hay bales around the barn. 

Isaias was hesitant around the animals at first- he’d never been around anything more than horses and stray pets. But he warmed up to the goats eventually and gave them occasional pats on the head. They weren’t so bad- even if he was shoveling their shit.

There were a few moments- when both Asbjørn and Eskild would be off working on some other chore, leaving Even and Isaias alone, moving hay or feeding sheep- it would become quiet. Isaias didn’t know how to act around him. Even. So much of their conversations before leaving Oslo were business and what wasn’t- well. It was awkward. 

Even didn’t say anything, but neither did Isaias. He spent his time moving between watching the barn doors, waiting for Eskild’s lively chatter and Asbjørn’s deep laughter to come back from whatever wood they were chopping or snow they were shoveling, and watching Even, waiting for him to say  _ something.  _

Every minute that passed had him thinking more and more. Did he have a problem with Isaias? 

 

“Have you worked in a barn before?” Isaias snapped his head around. Even was paused in his work, a bucket of water in his hands and his eyebrows raised. 

“Uh- no,” he shook his head. “Just good at- at moving stuff around, I suppose.”

Even nodded, as though he were considering it. “At the store you worked at? Or the- place before?”

He furrowed his brows. Why did Even seem- awkward? Was making conversation with Isaias so much more painstaking than  Asbjørn or Eskild? He felt uncomfortable with  _ Even’s  _ discomfort, and answered his question stiffly. “Uh- both, I guess. The store and the orphanage. Lots of stuff to do around- usually involving less hay and poop, but, basically similar stuff.”

Even nodded again, still looking at Isaias from across the small barn, and Isaias was more confused than before. “So,” Even started, drawing out the word. “Do you-”

The door banged open and Eskild marched in, followed by  Asbjørn , who was holding a box of vegetable scraps- and the cold wind followed them. Isaias shivered. 

“Let’s give this to the litt’l uns and then go have us some proper dinner, eh, boys?” The large man smiled behind his bushy red beard.

Isaias glanced towards Even, who was already moving past him to help  Asbjørn out with the scraps for the animals, not sparing Isaias any attention. 

What the hell was that about? 

*

It was after dinner- which was a short but delicious affair with lamb, potatoes, and vegetables. Maybe regular by  Asbjørn ’s standards, but it was more food at once than Isaias had seen in years- and he ate like it, finishing off his plate well before the others.

Then, Eskild suggested drinks, to which  Asbjørn gave a hearty cheer and Even smiled prettily, thanking his host and helping clear away the dishes. 

That was where it went perhaps more than a little downhill.

And now Isaias felt warm, felt light, felt giggly, felt-

Woozy. 

He was no stranger to alcohol- he remembered more than one time he’d knicked a half bottle of whatever cheap sherry or ale from the Madame at the orphanage, while she was passed out somewhere. Sometimes he’d share with his old friends, Magnus and Madhi, fun nights filled with teasing and the triumph of getting away with a crime so carefully executed. And sometimes he’d drink alone- those nights were less fun. 

On  _ this  _ night, he was not alone. And maybe a bit more fsr gone than he’d ever been. Isaias was halfway into his another cup of cheap ale, as well as a small, teacup-sized glass of something Absjorn was shocked to find none of the men had ever heard of-

Akvu-

Akvat- or-  _ shit- _

“- an’ the  _ spices!  _ This akvavit is th’best around Sweden,”  Asbjørn clapped his hand on Eskild’s shoulder merrily.

_ Akvavit _ . Right. 

...It was  _ very _ strong.  

Isaias was sitting at the end of  Asbjørn ’s small wooden dining table-  Asbjørn opposite him and Eskild and Even opposite each other- although, the more they drank, the closer to  Asbjørn Eskild got.  

Eskild and Even were telling the large Swedish man about the black markets of Oslo, before they were raided. Isaias had never thought a place like that could be real, and he found himself leaning more and more forward with every word. 

“I once saw a woman buy the most extravagant set of pearls.” Eskild gesticulated wildly, motioning to an invisible necklace around his throat. “Beautiful set, said to belong to the former Queen herself-”

Isaias held his breath- or would have, but he was having a bit of trouble controlling his body at this point. He took another swig of ale. 

“The seller- a lovely man, ran a stall that was constantly draped in silks from the Arab lands. You’d think he hadn’t got the memo that it’s called the  _ black  _ market, but I digress.”

Even and Isaias chuckled- it took  Asbjørn a moment, but when he caught on to Eskild’s little quip he was pounding the table in hysterics.

Isaias didn’t think it was  _ that  _ amusing, but  Asbjørn seemed to be the kind of person you laughed with, regardless. He smiled with him. Even caught his eye, chuckling at the display.

Goodness, Isaias was warm. 

“Anyway,” Eskild continued, still laughing a little and flush with drunkenness. “This seller- he pushes this necklace, plays it up- ‘ _ It was the Queen’s favorite necklace, she would drink tea with the princess of Spain with this on, she would wear it to bed with her husband, tuck her child into bed, and pray with this same necklace on’-  _ that kind of thing.”

Isaias’s laughter died down, his smile grew dimmer.

“She spent over thirty  _ thousand  _ kroner on this necklace, mind you,” Even cut in.

On a necklace the Queen might have worn- 

His mother.

Isaias felt himself drift away for a moment.

His mother? He wasn’t even sure- it always seemed so silly to hope- but he’d always hoped for one. A mother. 

“And in the end,” Eskild finished, “when she left, this seller turns to me and goes-”

Even cut in. “‘ _ That necklace was worth every cent. The only way to get fake pearls to look that authentic-”  _ Eskild joined him and they recited in time.“‘ _ Is by blowing the glass blower!’” _

The three men were roaring with laughter. No one took notice when Isaias didn’t join them. 

He felt- oh, he felt.. heavier- both with heavy, drunken limbs and heavy thoughts.

He’d never had a mother. 

Isaias decided at some point that drinking more would solve his problem- at least for now. He wanted to feel warmer and woozier and carefree. He wanted- to think about anything else. 

He shot back the rest of the akvavit in his little glass and chased it with ale, doing his best to listen to whatever story Even and Eskild had moved on to. 

*

Eventually, they called it a night. Isaias drained the last of his fourth- fifth? Probably fifth- glass of ale and they all decided to clean up in the morning.    

He remembered vaguely being led to a room with a fire and a sofa, someone’s hands wrapped around his arms, keeping him steady. He blinked and suddenly he was face down on a lumpy pillow. 

He still felt so heavy. Like he was wading through pudding or tied down. He heard voices around him but couldn’t tell what they were saying, couldn’t put in the effort to listen, couldn’t tell how much time was passing.

His eyelids felt heavy. Heavy.

But he couldn’t sleep. He wished he could sleep. He listened, eyes opened but glassy and unseeing, as the three others bid goodnight and moved around him, settling in different places in the room. Oh, but- but he couldn’t look to see where.

In the silence of the night, silence deafening like waves, heavy like waves, he couldn’t stop  _ thinking.  _

He couldn’t stop  _ feeling. _

He felt- nauseous. Sleepy- but awake. Sad. 

Alone. 

Like he was missing something, like  _ he was  _ missing. 

And Isaias wasn’t someone who felt very often- he had feelings, of course- but he never let himself  _ do this,  _ he always caught himself before he did  _ this,  _ did the  _ sad  _ thing, the  _ pity me _ thing, the  _ weak thing.  _

Isaias had tried telling himself as a child that he didn’t need parents. He had his friends. He had people to love, and who loved him. 

But the thing is, with orphanages, nothing lasts. Older kids who taught him how to clean and sew and everything he knew, were adopted- or, rather,  _ much _ more commonly, they would turn 18 and the Madame would kick them out. No matter how much they promised to keep in touch, visit, take Isaias away, they never did. It was why he so faithfully wrote to Erik and Amalie and all the kids he had cared for and spent time with.

Isaias knew what it was to have the only people you had disappear like cigarette smoke in the wind. 

It was bitter. So many people he hadn’t seen in years. Would never see again. 

Halvor. Carl. Josephine. Madhi. Magnus. 

They all aged out, they all gave teary goodbyes with promises to stay in touch- and what? Even though he’d been closer to Magnus and Madhi than anyone in that place- they were only a few months older than him or so-

He never heard from them. 

He would never admit it, but he dreamed of someone. Anyone. A family, who would stay. Who would come back. 

But orphans didn’t have families.   

But now- now Isaias had one. Maybe had one. A grandmother, who might smell good, like grandmothers do. Like Isaias thought they might. Smell sweet, like flowers. Who might hug him. Might call him  _ love  _ or  _ sweetest  _ or  _ my angel.  _

He told himself when he agreed to join Eskild and Even that he didn’t really believe he could be  _ Isak.  _ That he really just wanted a free ticket out. A chance at something more than sweeping floors. 

But maybe he did want more than that. Maybe it was scary to want someone to want him. 

Isaias groaned. He turned on his side- when did he get a blanket? He looked around, everything seemed as though it were slower- or farther away- or tilting. 

The fire was still going, a grate up to stop embers from jumping onto the animal skin rug. The light was orange, just bright enough to cast shadows around the room. Isaias sat up, slowly. He stared at the floor, just to make sure his feet were really on it. He looked up, blinking hard, and noticed- another sofa, with someone tucked in a blanket that was too small for their long, long body.

Even. 

Even was laid out on the sofa fast asleep. His long legs were dangling onto the floor and the light from the fire illuminated his face. He couldn’t help but stare. Even was-

Even was  _ strange.  _ They certainly didn’t have the best start, and the weeks following their meeting were tense, they didn’t know each other- still didn’t- and where Even was pushy and picky and insensitive in those first few weeks, Isaias responded defensively, with clipped tones and wordless glares. And now things were-  _ strange.  _ Isaias didn't understand him- and that made him uncomfortable and unsure. The only conversations they’d had were short and awkward in a way Even apparently reserved for Isaias, who he was so uncomfortable with. 

Isaias wished he wasn’t strange with him. Wished Even was comfortable around him, would joke with him and smile- he had a good one. A smile. A good smile.

The room tilted a little again. 

Fuck, Isaias needed another drink. 

He turned his head  much too quickly away from Even- who was breathing so lightly with his lips parted- and the room started to tilt again. He spotted a bottle of ale across the room and made that his target. 

It was hard, and blurry, and took much longer than it should have- but he eventually hoisted himself up and staggered over to the table. Taking the bottle in his hand, Isaias threw another look at Even- after this, the three of them were going somewhere. He couldn’t think where. Somewhere. Even probably knew. He knew a lot- lot more than Isaias, anyway. 

He thought of Eskild and Even and him, going on after this. He didn’t know much about the rest of Europe. He’d found an old map when he was little once, but that got ruined before he could memorize much more than where France was. And Paris. 

He took a swig from the bottle, not even noticing the bitter taste like he had earlier in the night. 

God, he hated wondering. Wondering if this was all some huge coincidence, a cruel trick of the universe. Get the poor little orphan boys hopes up, only to drag him back down. 

He had made no progress before, pulling at numbers and names as if they would produce memories in his head that weren’t there.  

His thoughts were too much, all jumbled up. He didn’t want to think at all.

Isaias was good at ignoring things, usually. If you didn’t think about something, it didn’t have to bother you. If there was a distraction, there wasn’t a reason to be upset. But he couldn’t stop thinking, now. Not just about his grandmother, his friends, Even, Eskild- himself. It was all too much. Too, too much. 

He pulled another drink from the bottle, more of it going down his shirt than in his mouth. 

He went to sit down at the table- but sorely misjudged where the chair was, missing it completely. He grabbed at the arm of the chair as he fell, toppling it over with him with a loud clatter. 

“F-fffuck,” he groaned. 

He laid there, staring at the ceiling. Maybe if he just laid here, he’d fall into darkness and wake up fine. He closed his eyes tight and when he opened them again, someone was kneeling over him, hovering close. He knew who it was but everything felt so  _ slow  _ that it took him an embarrassing amount of time until he processed that it was-

“Eks..il?”

When prompted later, Isaias would swear up and down that he didn’t remember a single thing about that night, that he was more than three sheets in the wind- more like thirty. 

But maybe that wasn’t the whole truth. 

Everything after his last drink came and went, hazy, slippery impressions of Eskild saying his name, asking him questions he didn’t understand or didn’t have the ability to answer, the dizziness when he got Isaias to sit up and lean on him. 

But some things, he remembered crystal clear. 

He didn’t know what he said or did to cause it (though maybe he knew in his heart, if not his memory), but he remembered Eskild’s face, twisted in worry. He remembered babbling, shaking his head back and forth like a petulant child. He remembered Eskild thumbing away tears. 

He remembered the vomiting. Oh, how he remembered. 

And after that- well maybe the picture wasn’t so unclear as he would pretend. 

Once he’d upchucked the first time, all over Eskild and himself, Eskild hoisted him to his shakey feet and brought him into the kitchen to heave into a bucket. He rubbed soothing circles in his back while Isaias emptied his stomach. 

“Ever’ting alrigh’?” Isaias looked up from his bucket of misery to see  Asbjørn standing in the kitchen doorway, his frame just visible in the dark. The burly man was half dressed, no nightshirt and trousers hastily thrown on. His hair was mussed and his genuine concern for Isaias made him feel so guilty, he stuck his face back in the bucket.

He wished he’d forgotten the sting of bile in the back of his throat, but the good Lord had other plans, apparently. 

“Just peachy-keen,” Eskild said cheerfully, his hand still on Isaias’s back. “You go on back to bed, I’ve got him.”

“Alrigh’,”  Asbjørn said, his gruff voice laced with uncertainty. “I’ll keep th’candles on fer a bit longer, take yer time.” And he slipped out of the room- but not before walking further in to bend down and give Eskild a peck on the cheek.

Isaias went reeling. 

“What- wh, what,” he sputtered once  Asbjørn had left. “He-” Isaias looked to Eskild and then realized. 

Eskild disappeared that night.

Eskild was wearing a shirt that was much too big for him. 

Eskild’s advances hadn’t been turned away that entire day. And what Isaias had taken as polite friendliness on  Asbjørn ’s part, clearly was not just that.  

He coughed into the bucket, sputtering up the last bits of mess. 

“Did you,” Isaias slurred when he cleared his throat. He looked up at Eskild, his face still half in the bucket for good measure. “Did you and he..?”

“Have a bit of a rough? Take a turn in Cupid’s Alley?” Eskild wiggled his eyebrows. “Fuck?”

Back in the bucket he went.

“Are you so shocked?” Eskild chuckled. 

Isaias’s returning groan only drew silence from his caretaker. 

“You know,” Eskild said, considerably calmer- not a good calm. A calm that spoke to a kind of diplomacy Eskild was forced to learn. One that made Isaias’s stomach clench. “If this really bothers you, we’re going to have to talk. I know you said it doesn’t- but obviously that’s not true. No need to play the hetero hero, you can say you find me appalling. Nothing I haven’t heard before.” His voice brightened up, but Isaias’s stomach stayed in knots. “And then we can try and move past all this unpleasantness! Hm?”

Isaias couldn’t find it in him to speak. He breathed- heavy, puffing breaths. 

It took until Eskild gently pried the bucket from him for him to see Isaias was crying again. 

“No,” he said through his tears. He shook his heavy head, hung low so he still didn’t have to look Eskild in the eye. “Is- ‘s not a lie. I don’, don’t hate you for being- being. Homosex- sexu’l _.”  _ He mumbled the word, trailing off the end of the sentence, hoping it came off as drunk slurring, rather than his own inability to even say it.  __

God he was  _ miserable.  _ He hated making Eskild sound like that- like he was so used to being hated, and Isaias was just another person spitting at his feet. He hated making Eskild-  _ Eskild, _ who had cheered him on when he thought he couldn’t fit another name or date in his head, who had tried so hard to make him feel cheerful, who had literally just nursed him as he emptied the contents of his stomach into a bucket on a dirty kitchen floor- feel as though he were less than. 

Who the fuck was  _ he? _

“I just- I can’t understand,” Isaias slumped back down to the floor. He buried his face in his hands- maybe if he muffled his words, no one would hear. “How you can do it? How do you do that-” his hands made a half attempt to gesture at Eskild’s  _ Eskild-ness,  _ which was more just waving his hands in the air before they dropped down on his chest like dead weight _.  _ “When I..” 

“You?” Eskild said flatly. “You, what?” 

He didn’t  _ understand.  _ He didn’t  _ get it, why didn’t he just know?  _ Isaias didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to  _ say it _ out loud for the world and God and himself to know- but. 

“I can’t be like you,” he whispered. He didn’t know when he started crying- didn’t realize until his breathing turned to shallow, shattering gasps for air, cutting his words up. “I can’t-  _ be _ \-  _ like- you.” _

“Are you,” Eskild paused, sounding for all the world like he couldn’t find words- something that might have been a humorous rarity in any other instance. “Are  _ you?”  _ He asked. And he knew. Isaias it heard in his voice. In the darkness of the early hours, on the dusty kitchen floor of a kind stranger, he knew. “Like me?”

Isaias cried harder. 

*

Once, when Isaias was fourteen, he met a boy. He’d been at the orphanage for almost six years at that point. Nearing the exact day, snow fell heavy and yuletide came. That didn’t usually mean much for the children in the home, except maybe exchanging handmade scraps of this or that, crumpled paper, sticks, and scrap pinecones held together by string. 

But that year, it meant Harald. Like some saintly Christmas gift from the heavens, Harald was brought to their doorstep on the Eve of Christmas.

They became fast friends, inseparable. Isaias read to him and pointed out plant types, Harald taught him how to tie knots and throw a punch. And then Isaias’s feelings for Harald became- something. A brotherhood, Harald called it. 

Isaias wanted another word for it. 

Harald left, of course. The brotherhood didn’t stop him from going a year later when some man from a nearby fishing town needed extra help in the form of an adopted set of working hands.

He didn’t know how to find him, after that. And Harald didn’t come back.

People came and went, Isaias knew that. But Harald changed things, changed something in Isaias that he couldn’t undo- but he couldn’t ever tell. 

He didn’t remember if he told Eskild any of that, that night. Or how much, if he did. 

But he did remember that he cried just as much as he did the night Harald left; until he couldn’t see anymore, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but succumb to exhaustion in the deepest hours of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's really nothing to say except im sorry its so late I know I said writing the last chapter was hard but this was the most frustrating experience of my LIFe and I'm glad im still alive. 
> 
> thanks to all 4 people who still care about this thing <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! pls comment and let me know what you think!
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr @sana-halla


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